


Don't you put me on the back burner

by robotwitch



Series: Once more for the ages [2]
Category: Uncharted (Video Games)
Genre: Casual Sex, Depression, F/M, Friends & Enemies, Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Mentor/Protégé, Rivalry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-30
Updated: 2019-09-30
Packaged: 2020-11-08 01:42:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20827295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/robotwitch/pseuds/robotwitch
Summary: Both opposed by adversaries and aided by compatriots, a nobody treasure hunter rises up through the ranks and becomes a legend.





	1. Room for one more son

It’s so foolishly reckless – so brazenly American of Victor to march into the hotel after the events of a few days ago. More so, she thinks, when her men inform her Victor came unarmed.

Marlowe ought to order them to eliminate Victor without so much as a word to him, but that wouldn’t be very sporting. He wouldn’t show his face here so rashly if it wasn’t worth her time; he knows better than that.

Chin held high, Marlowe meets him in the lobby. “You have an awful lot of nerve to come crawling back.”

Keeping his shoulders squared, Victor withdraws a bundle of banknotes from his pocket, placing it on the concierge desk. “That’s all the cash I was paid upfront, minus any expense I put toward getting you that astrolabe, for a job unfinished.”

Marlowe thumbs the cash; she’d already counted it as a loss, far less than she would’ve paid for the acquisition of both relics, but now she has the cipher at a mere fraction of its true value.

“You surprise me, Victor. It appears your kind has some sense of honor after all.”

“And yours have no sense of common decency.”

Her eyes snap away from the money and lock on Victor, his lip curled in anger. She might laugh if it hadn’t cost her Drake’s ring.

“Honestly, he’s just a boy.”

“Exactly my point.”

Cackling, “You are truly willing to give all this up for some arbitrary moral code – some cocky, little mongrel?”

Marlowe waves the money under his nose, but his glare holds on her. Still, she is undeterred by his newfound scruples. Any man can be bought, given the right price, and the worth of Francis Drake’s ring is far higher than the cost of Victor Sullivan’s pride.

“I’ll double my original offer.”

“Don’t embarrass yourself, Katherine.”

“Bring me Drake’s ring, I’ll double my original offer and I won’t touch a single hair on the boy’s filthy head.”

_That_ rattles his conviction; breaking his gaze, he chews his tongue.

Victor has his debts, she knows, and a less than favorable reputation in certain circles. She could easily ruin him, he knows, but she’d rather not just yet. He may yet have other uses.

Fingering the dogtags around his neck, she sweetens the deal, “Despite our disagreement the other evening, this has been a pleasurable partnership, has it not? I see no reason it couldn’t continue.”

Victor’s deliberation ends with a bark of laughter, “I’d stick to intimidation tactics, if I were you, Kate. Pillow talk doesn’t suit you. Besides, the kid’s long gone.”

Marlowe snatches her hand away from his chest, “You’re bluffing.”

“I assure you, I’m not. Bought the kid a meal and he ran off.”

“You don’t want to make an enemy of me, Sullivan.”

“Why do you think I brought back the goddamn money?”

“I will find him, with or without your help. Then who will protect him?”

“If that kid’s half as smart as he thinks he is, neither of us will ever see him again.”

Seething beneath the surface, “You’ll regret this.”

“Goodbye, Katherine. I’d wish you luck in your pursuit, but we both know that’d be a load of horseshit,” Victor shrugs and exits with an about-face.

Infuriated, Marlowe crushes the banknotes in her hand and races back to the room, ordering her men to tail Sullivan.

“He’ll lead us to the boy, I’m sure of it.”

But when they report back hours later, Sullivan has left Cartagena. Settled a few accounts then took off from the airfield – alone. No sign of the brat.

For days she has the street scoured high and low, but it seems as though Sullivan was right. The boy has vanished.

\----------

Cutter can’t stop chuckling, it’s _that_ funny, “Bit off more than you can chew, eh, Sully?”

But really the only thing funnier than Victor Sullivan going soft over a kid is Victor Sullivan getting saddled with two of ‘em.

“I didn’t exactly bargain for the second one, he just sort of –” Sully gestures vaguely “– came as part of a packaged deal.”

Doesn’t make it any less amusing to Cutter, “You know you didn’t have to take them both under your wing, right?”

“If only,” Sully scoffs as if it wasn’t a discussion.

Taking on an apprentice, it’s too Elizabethan. Nobody does it nowadays – especially in their line of work. Plenty of hopeful thieves don’t make it past their first hunt; it’s not worth the time or the investment.

Except something about the boy piqued Sully’s interest, so Cutter’s intrigued enough to at least meet the boy. “Unless he’s some sort of prodigy, you’re wasting the effort, Sully.”

“I’m telling you – the kid’s got promise. He just needs to stop getting tangled up with the wrong sort.”

“Like yourself?”

“You’re goddamn hilarious, Charlie,” Sully rolls his eyes.

Course Sully’s not wrong, there are plenty of the wrong sort in this business – those who don’t abide by the ‘honor among thieves’ code, but this isn’t a typical meet-and-greet. Like Sully’s setting him up as one of this kid’s better contacts.

Cutter’s flattered Sully thinks so highly of him, but he’s not sure he wants to be a kid’s go-to guy. That’s a responsibility he’s not willing to take on, even if Sully is.

With any luck, they won’t show, and Cutter won’t wind up getting saddled with the tagalong.

Another tour moves through the gallery, when Sully finally spots them, “Ah. There they are.”

He signals to a pair of boys who look like they could’ve been part of the school group if it wasn’t for their shabby appearance.

Sully tends to infantilize anyone younger than himself, but Cutter wasn’t anticipating literal children. No wonder they couldn’t have the meet-up at a pub. The older one might get by a bouncer, but certainly not the younger.

“I’ll be damned,” Cutter breathes.

“Keep an eye on your wallet,” Sully warns as they approach. “Boys, I’d like you to meet a friend of mine. This is Charlie Cutter. Cutter – Nate and Sam Drake.”

“Hey, Sully,” the younger one waves, his attention wandering toward the exhibit displays.

_God, his voice has barely even dropped yet._

Cutter’s known enough folks in the business to use assumed identities, so he doesn’t bat an eye at the obviously false surname. But it’s long out of fashion to use the names of historic figures, deemed too flashy.

“Drake, huh? Like the explorer? Thought old Sir Francis didn’t have –”

“Didn’t have any children. Yeah, we’ve heard that one a few times before,” the older one replies testily. Sully’s not as clever as Cutter thought, if _that’s_ the sort of attitude he thinks will make it in this business.

Forcing himself to give the young man a shot, “Heard the pair of you were looking for work – thought I might be able to help out.”

“We’re fine – thanks. Sullivan doesn’t know when to mind his own business.”

_Sullivan?_ Cutter hasn’t called Sully ‘Sullivan’ since their first gig together.

“I’m doing you a goddamn favor even making the introduction, Sam.”

“And we’re just supposed to be grateful to you? Owe you something back?”

It’s hard to tell which of them is grousing more.

The younger one groans, clearly accustomed to their bickering. He rolls his eyes at the pair of them then focuses his attention on a painting to the Battle of Hattin, sketchbook in hand.

Taking a cue from the boy, Cutter joins Nate. Pointing at the symbols on the shields, “See that there? They got the sigils wrong.”

Nate squints at the painting, “How can you tell?”

“Cause the Knights Templar were on the other side of the battlefield during the siege.” Cutter withdraws his own notebook, “It should’ve been the Knights Hospitaller over there – Templars are just more recognizable.”

The kid’s head tilts, reading Cutter’s dreadful handwriting and correcting the sigils in his own sketch. “If you ask me, there should be a lot more smoke in the air to illustrate the Muslim’s tactics.”

Cutter snorts. The kid knows his history.

Nate continues to sketch, taking Cutter’s corrections into account in his own rendition. Equally more accurate and more exciting than the seven-hundred-year-old painting on the wall.

“Swapping notes?” Sully joins them, hovering over Nate’s shoulder, “Well, would you look at that.”

It suddenly dawns on Cutter that _this_ is the boy Sully’s taken under his wing. _Not_ the other one.

Nate looks up for a moment, “Where’d Sam go?”

“Your brother needed a cigarette after our little squabble.”

“Probably needed a break from Sully’s constant nagging,” Cutter jokes, but at least the older boy has enough sense to smoke away from the centuries’ old artifacts.

Though the kid laughs at his brother’s expense, it’s obvious they don’t separate easily. Cutter feels for Sully’s plight, but he’s sure as hell glad they’re not his problem.

\----------

“Victor”

“Katherine.”

“I appreciate your coming to meet me.”

“No reason we can’t be civil,” Sully shrugs.

“My thoughts precisely. Shall we sit?” Marlowe gestures to the pair of armchairs besides the fountain in the lobby.

A wide open, public area. Either she’s attempting to prove her civility or she’s afraid he might try to pull something. Either way, Sully’s glad he’s not being led to a private room with no exit.

Biting down on a fresh cigar, Sully strikes a match. Recalling Marlowe to have partaken in the occasional cigarette, he offers it to her first.

Declining, “Not at the moment. Thank you, Victor.”

“Never let it be said that Victor Sullivan isn’t a gentleman.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” a slight smile slips across her face, reminding Sully there were qualities about her he once found attractive.

But taking the first puff of his cigar, Sully contemplates her as she is now. Katherine Marlowe doesn’t operate like other crooks. She isn’t constantly on the offensive and never impulsive; she moves slowly and deliberately.

Which only makes Sully more wary of her. If she’s asked him here, it’s because she has some scheme up her sleeve – Sully just hasn’t worked out what it is.

With a shake of his hand, he puts out the match, “Now, down to business. Why did you really want to speak to me?”

Her sliver of a smile falters. “I’d like us to call a truce and let bygones be bygones, as it were.”

Chuckling, “Somehow I knew you’d be begging to get me back. What’s the catch?”

“Catch? Why Victor, I’m astonished you could suspect me of such a thing. We’ve always done good business together – as I said before, I see no reason that couldn’t continue.”

She’s laying it on too thick; there’s only one thing she could want that desperately.

Lifting a shrewd brow, “There’s always a catch in our line of work, Kate.”

The smile vanishes completely. “Francis Drake’s ring.”

“Ah. As I thought, but like I told you before, I haven’t since the kid since –”

“Now it’s my turn to tell you not to play coy.” With a snap of her fingers, one of her shadowy men pulls a file from a briefcase and passes it to Marlowe. “You’ve been mentoring him.”

She extracts a photo and slips it across the side-table between them. Glancing at it, Sully recognizes the occasion, him and Nate breaking into a church on a gig a few weeks back. She places another one beside it: yesterday morning’s argument over Marlowe’s invitation. Drake’s ring clearly visible in each of them.

Tapping his cigar in the ashtray, Sully picks up the latter and mutters, “Goddamn it, kid.”

For all of Nate’s cleverness, wearing Drake’s ring around his neck like a medal of honor is just plain stupid. A signal flare, taunting and provoking Marlowe.

“He’s turning out to be quite the fine young man, isn’t he? Though I doubt his manners have much improved. You must be proud.”

“You caught me,” Sully sighs. “Although, I’m still not entirely clear what it is you expect I’m going to do for you. My position on the matter hasn’t changed.”

They’ve both been in this game too long not to know there’s an easy way and a hard one to get what one wants. They might as well speak plainly.

“Now that you know you can’t hide him from me, I thought you might want to reconsider my offer.”

Holding his ground, “All this proves is you can track me. And _that_ I’ve known since the start.”

“He calls himself Nathan Drake. What a lark.”

It was only a matter of time before she found out Nate’s identity. Nobody else in the business has bothered to remember the name of the kid trailing behind his brother, but a trail of arrests was bound to lead Marlowe to him sooner or later.

Sully does his damnedest not to let it show how much her discovery has rattled him, “Haven’t you heard? Francis Drake had heirs by some mistress.”

“A fabrication. All his papers are forgeries.”

“You really have done your research.”

“I trust you believe me now, Sullivan.”

“Without a doubt, you have impressive resources. Clearly you could accost him yourself, why reach out to me?”

“Common decency.”

“Ah.” Sully’s pleased his accusation stung so deep.

“I see no reason this dispute between us can’t be handled amicably. And I doubt Nathan has any interest in dealing with me personally.”

“You’re not wrong about that,” he agrees, but Marlowe’s attention has shifted.

She trains her gaze on the newly arrived suited goon, delivering a message to her righthand man behind Sully. Her patience wears thin quickly, “Well?”

“Excuse me, ma’am we didn’t mean to interrupt your meeting, but there’s been an incident back at the room.”

Sully leans back in his seat, getting comfortable as the scene unfolds.

“What sort of incident?”

“A break-in, ma’am.”

“Was anything taken?”

“No ma’am. The thief was chased out before he could get his hands on anything.”

“What thief?”

“Drake, ma’am.”

Her fierce gaze darts back to Sully, who holds his hands up in mock ignorance. He would hate to be on the other end of this lashing.

Snapping, “Why in god’s name didn’t you go after him then?”

Her man hesitates, “We did, ma’am. We lost him in the marketplace.”

“You _lost_ him?”

“We were sure we had followed him, but when we caught up – it wasn’t Drake.”

Sully chuckles, perhaps enjoying this a little _too _much. “Something the matter, Katherine?”

“He can’t have gone far. Spread out and find him!” She orders then turns on Sully, “You thought he could steal the cipher, didn’t you?”

“_I_ didn’t. _He_ did. But what the hell, it was worth a shot.”

He’s only here because Nate asked him to accept her invitation and be his distraction. It was a long shot at best Marlowe would even be traveling with the astrolabe.

Marlowe snarls, “Well, your little ploy failed.”

“It would appear so,” Sully shrugs. It’s a damn waste, but Sully puts out his cigar; he’d rather not spend another moment in Marlowe’s company. “And now, if you don’t mind, I’ll take my leave.”

She catches him by the wrist as he stands, “You’ve made a grave mistake coming here under the guise of my truce.”

“All I did today was speak with a dangerously charming viper.”

“Oh no, Victor. You’ve done so much more than that. You’ve shown your hand, shown this isn’t just about moral conscience anymore. You’ve grown attached to the boy, haven’t you?”

Try as he might to keep his reaction neutral, his shoulders tense involuntarily. Marlowe gives a satisfied smirk which makes Sully’s skin crawl.

“I thought as much. Because you see, Victor, Nathan may have managed to escape this time, but I will have Drake’s ring no matter the cost.”

“Don’t pin your hopes on it, my dear.”

Her grip loosens and Sully twists his arm free. Keeping an eye over his shoulder, Sully delays returning to the rendezvous spot as long as possible.

He’s not stupid enough to lead Marlowe’s goons straight to Nate after a stunt like that, but it means Sam is rather antsy by the time he does rejoin them.

“Jesus, Sullivan. We thought you had gotten back into bed with the enemy.”

Sardonically, “Won’t deny, she was mighty tempted by my offer.”

Sam grumbles and lights up a smoke in response.

Nate chuckles at his disgruntled brother until he catches the dissatisfied expression on Sully’s face. He might as well have a tail between his legs.

Crossing his arms, “So you didn’t get it.”

“No, but –”

“I _told_ you it was a bad plan, kid.”

Defending himself, “What are you talking about? No one got caught. No one was hurt. They completely fell for the Sam Swap –”

“You need to start raising your standards for what constitutes a successful job.”

Nate’s jaw snaps shut.

Sully counts on his fingers the things which didn’t go according to plan, “You didn’t get the disk, Marlowe confirmed your identity and that we’re working together. _And_ we didn’t manage to learn anything in return. Whatever cards we had in our favor against Marlowe are all gone.”

Nate flinches as Sully chastises him. This was always the kid’s pursuit. Nothing was going to convince him not to try to take on Marlowe, except a failure like this.

“Relax, Sullivan. We still have the ring and some other leads to follow. We’re not at a complete loss yet.”

It’s not like Sam to be the optimist. Sully would bet everything in his wallet Sam’s only doing it in order to paint him as the naysayer to this whole endeavor.

Thumbing through his notebook, Nate concurs, “We do still have more to go off of than them.”

Sully rolls his eyes at the pair of them. “Didn’t you hear me? We have no way of knowing what they do or do not know.”

But the Drake boys have already tuned him out, weighing and measuring the viability of their next lead. Giving up on getting through to them, Sully settles down with another cigar, similarly reviewing potential new gigs.

They’ll both come to their senses once they realize they’re all out of scratch to fund the next step of their scheme.

\----------

She can already tell by the way the boy’s eyes narrow with suspicion rather than widen with confusion, he has the right instinct.

Marlowe gestures to the seat across the desk, “Please sit.”

Firmly, “Where’s Chancellor Kingston?”

“He has allowed me special use of his office. Where he is at this moment – I haven’t the faintest idea.” This time it is a command, “Sit.”

He does so obediently.

“Now then, William Talbot. I understand you are being dismissed from this institution, is that correct?”

“Yes, ma’am,” his response is stiff.

“And this is not the first university you have been dismissed from?”

The boy bristles, “No, ma’am.”

“And why is that exactly? From what I see here, it can’t be your marks. They’re not poor, though hardly competitive –”

“Pardon me, ma’am, but this is none of your concern.”

“But it is precisely why I am here. I see your highest marks are in history – tell me, Talbot, what do you know of Elizabeth I’s advisory council?”

Perplexed by the line of questioning, he answers dutifully as if in class, “Her council was made up of the finest minds of the age: Francis Walsingham, John Dee, Walter Raleigh. There are many who propose they were the true power behind her reign.”

“But you disagree.”

“I have no doubt of Elizabeth’s absolute authority. They were men of such varying beliefs and methods, they couldn’t have all worked together without a strong mitigating hand.”

“How right you are,” Marlowe’s lips curl. “In your studies, have you encountered any of the institutions known as the School of Night, Hellfire Club, or Order of the Golden Dawn?”

Talbot shifts on the edge of his seat as Marlowe closes in on her point. She’s read his essays; she knows where his interests lie. Pity his professors do not see the same potential in him as she.

“Yes, ma’am. All of them. They were known and sanctified practitioners of the occult – sorry, but I still don’t understand what any of this has to do with me or who you are.”

There it is again. That instinct not to let himself be led by the nose.

“Despite their separate research, each organization shared a common purpose: to seek out alternative means to protect the realm and conquer or destroy its enemies. All of them governed by the queen and her council under the banner of the Hermetic Order.”

There’s another smug flash across Talbot’s face, the look of a man whose every theory has been confirmed. The look of a man hungry for more.

Smirking, “Through history, the monarchy relinquished its control of the Order, distancing itself from our beliefs and practices. My name is Katherine Marlowe and as it’s leader it is my duty to see we stay true to our purpose.”

“And what does the head of such an organization want with a failing student?”

“If your marks are not the reason for your dismissal, tell me, Talbot, what is?”

“I attempted to convince my fellow classmates of my theories at knifepoint.”

Marlowe meets Talbot’s eye; there isn’t a morsel of regret in him. Perhaps a little rough around the edges, not particularly subtle, but Marlowe has no doubt of her ability to groom him into her new second-in-command.

_All in due time_, she reminds herself. “I take it, my purpose here is clear to you now.”

“Yes, ma’am. You are here to recruit me to the Hermetic Order.”

“Precisely. Though, there is one member of Elizabeth’s council you neglected to mention and if you are to be inducted, I will require you not to forget him again.”

Abashed, “Which one?”

“Drake.”


	2. Meaning from the back of my broken hand

That most of the thieves and crooks he encounters refer to him as ‘the rich boy’ doesn’t perturb Rafe so much. What does is their refusal to see his offer as genuine; seasoned treasure hunters laugh him off and tell him to leave it to the professionals.

“Wouldn’t your mommy and daddy be upset you ruined your delicate hands instead of spending their money to get someone else to do it for you?”

Rafe glowers, but it isn’t enough to dissuade him from going after the treasure himself. Except not even the _Gunsway _haul is enough to tempt them into partnership.

Surely the foremost pirate treasure hunter could be persuaded by the legendary bounty. But even after Rafe buys him a few rounds and lets him ramble about lesser pirate treasures, he cuts Rafe short as he’s about to make his proposal.

“Forget it, boy. I’m not interested.”

“I’ll triple your rates.” Rafe haggles recklessly, but if Douglas won’t out-and-out partner with him, he’ll speak a language they both understand.

“Listen, Adler. I’ve scoured the seven seas, searching for pirate gold – the _Gunsway_ is a fool’s errand. There’s a reason nobody’s found it.”

“Because no one else has the resources I can provide.”

“Your parents never told you ‘no’, did they?”

“Only because I won’t take it for an answer.”

Douglas groans, “If you’re that desperate, hire the Drakes, and leave me be.”

Balking, “The who?”

“A pair of ne’er-do-well, know-it-all brothers under Victor Sullivan’s thumb. Heard the older one has a particular interest in your pirate captain. You could probably pick them up for a song.”

“I’m not going to hire a couple of two-bit nobody thieves when I’ve got _the_ leading Avery expert right here. How much will it take to convince you?”

“I want the years I already wasted looking for it back. Can your daddy’s money buy me those?”

Rafe stammers, trying to come up with anything else he could bring to the table.

Douglas drains the rest of his pint, slamming the glass on the bar, “Thanks for the drinks and the amusing tale for my mates.”

With that Douglas strides toward the door, stopping only to grab his coat off the hook.

Mystified, “Who the fuck are the Drakes? How do I find them?”

Over his shoulder, Douglas flips Rafe off.

With nothing else to go on, Rafe asks around about Victor Sullivan. Nearly everyone says the same thing: more of a smuggler and conman than a thief – a crook’s middleman.

The name Drake gets the same reaction he had, “Who the fuck are you talking about?”

And if they have heard of them, the consensus is they must be in prison somewhere.

His investigation dismissed by yet _another_ low life criminal, Rafe throws his empty bottle at the side of the bar. His fit raises brows amongst the smokers in the alley, but he doesn’t give a shit.

He’s fuming, starting to doubt the Drakes even exist – that Douglas just made them up in order to get rid of him.

Down the alley, Rafe catches one of the smokers staring at him. He’s almost sizing him up, as if he isn’t a good head taller than Rafe already.

“What the fuck are you looking at?” he challenges the man.

Putting out the butt of his cigarette with his foot, the man approaches, “You Rafe Adler?”

“Who wants to know?”

“Heard you were asking around about the Drakes. I have some information that might interest you about them.”

Someone else might find his grin charming, but to Rafe it’s infuriating. Just another asshole who wants to mock his pursuit of the _Gunsway_. Rafe sneers.

Noticing Rafe’s distrust, the man offers his hand, “The name’s Sam Drake. And I know where to start the hunt for Avery’s treasure.”

Rafe’s lip curls upward. _Finally._

They move inside. Rafe orders drinks and Sam explains how he found him.

As it turns out, meeting Sam Drake is less of a coincidence than Rafe thought. His inquiries caused enough of a stir to draw Sam’s attention, tracing his movements – one seedy treasure hunter haunt to the next.

Once he’s through, Sam starts on detailing Avery’s entire pirating career; he might actually know more than Douglas, certainly more than Rafe. And though he’s proved he knows a thing or two, Rafe can’t help noticing how he talks circles around the _Gunsway_.

“Alright. Enough,” he snaps. “I get it. You’re an expert. How do we find the damn thing?”

Sam sighs, extracting another cigarette from his pack and sticking it between his teeth, “Straight to business then.”

Scoffing, “What do you mean ‘straight to business’? You’ve been talking for over an hour.”

“There are a few details we need to discuss before I say any more than I already have.”

“What’s there to negotiate? I’ll fund the expedition then it’s an even two-way split, minus expenses –”

“Three-way split.”

Rafe purses his lips. The _Drakes_. _Brothers_.

Every tidbit he managed to scrape together told him he wouldn’t get one without the other, but here Sam is in front of him and the other one hasn’t come up once.

It shouldn’t be too difficult to explain four-hundred million doesn’t divide evenly by three.

“Samuel, be reasonable. We don’t need to bring a third party into this.”

“Except, it’s a three-man job,” Sam insists.

“Then we’ll hire someone cheap. They don’t need to be a full partner.”

“I won’t do it without my brother. Besides, we’re gonna need Nathan on this. Trust me.”

Rafe’s lip twitches. Every fiber of his being is screaming, but it’s less about the money than Sam probably thinks. This treasure could define them and Rafe hardly wants to share that glory with one Drake, let alone two.

But Sam won’t budge; its Nathan or nothing. Throwing up his hands, “Fine, but I get to call the shots.”

“Yes, sir.” Sam mock salutes. “Now, let’s introduce you to our third partner.”

Rafe half-expects to find him playing cards or something at another table nearby, but he has to follow Sam to three separate bars before they find him trying his luck in a different manner.

Sam shouts upon spotting him loitering around the pool tables, “Hey, Nathan!”

“Little busy at the moment, Sam,” he dismisses his brother in favor of the attractive woman making eyes at him.

“You don’t mind if I borrow him for a moment, do you?” Sam steps between them.

“Come on, Sam –” Nathan starts to protest.

“Listen. Listen. I found us a partner.”

Reluctantly, Nathan looks over his shoulder and frankly Rafe’s surprised he’s old enough to drink – not that anyone’s carding at these joints.

If Sam can lay on the charm when he wants to, Nathan is disarmingly handsome. If he wasn’t being interrupted, Nathan likely would’ve gotten exactly what he was after with very little effort. It sickens Rafe how _some_ people are just handed things on a silver platter.

The next thing that catches Rafe’s eye as he’s sizing up the other Drake is the glint of silver against his chest. Rafe can’t help but think the accessory is a bit douchey.

It takes two words from Sam to get Nathan to come to his senses, “Burnes’ cell.”

Nathan abandons his pursuit, eagerly following his brother, “Excuse me.”

The woman is put out as the Drakes claim an empty table. Sam makes no indication for Rafe to follow, but hurriedly starts talking in order to stave off his brother’s objections. At this distance, Rafe can’t hear them, but he doesn’t appreciate being excluded from the conversation.

“Gentlemen, how about a round as we discuss how to proceed?”

The younger Drake casts a cursory glance at the older, as if to say, ‘You can’t be serious’.

The look chafes against Rafe’s ego. He’ll tolerate seasoned treasure hunters second guessing him, but not this flea. Not a man to needs to rely on his brother to get him a job.

Sam waves Rafe off, “Just give us another second.”

“Sorry, I’m done waiting for you to finish talking. My turn. Rafe Adler,” he extends his hand.

“Nathan Drake,” he stiffly shakes Rafe’s hand.

“Nate – can I call you Nate?” he asks but he doesn’t care. “Your brother’s the Avery expert. I have all the capital and resources we could possibly need. What do you bring to the team?”

Nate grinds his teeth, rather than answer, like he’s not used to his qualifications being called into question.

“Nathan’s an accomplished –”

“I’m not asking you. I’m asking Nate here.”

“If you’d like to climb that tower and put the clues in that letter together, be my guest.”

Rafe blinks at Nate’s response, then to Sam, “What the hell is he talking about?”

“The reason we need him.” Rafe still isn’t buying it, so Sam finally opens his mouth to say something of substance, “Captain Avery’s first mate wrote a letter to his son from a Spanish prison in Panama, containing hints to the location of the _Gunsway_ treasure.”

Nate continues, “The problem is, the letter only gets us partway. We need access to Burnes’ cell to figure out the rest.”

“And that’s where you come in,” Sam finishes.

Rafe’s attention darts back and forth as they talk, realizing Avery isn’t some casual interest of the brothers Drake. They’ve been on this hunt a long time; Rafe’s just stepping in the middle.

Clapping his hands together, “Well then, that settles it. We’re off to Panama.”

\----------

Packing up’s always been pretty simple for Sam. There are only a few items he worries about leaving behind.

Despite the offer of a safe at Rafe’s parents’ mansion, Sam declines; he’s not going to leave mom’s journals in Rafe’s clutches.

Nathan’s suggestion of leaving their things at Sullivan’s place doesn’t set Sam’s mind at ease, but Nathan’s protectiveness and the safety of Drake’s ring wins out and Sam agrees to leave his only worldly possessions in the care of Victor Sullivan.

He assures Rafe it’ll just be a short detour to New Orleans then onto Panama, their partner’s feathers already ruffled by the lack of trust.

“Don’t take too long. We’ve got a plane to catch.”

“Hey,” Nathan nudges Sam as they’re getting out of the car. “If he leaves, we’ll just get Sully to take us.”

“I’d rather Rafe’s bitching than Sullivan’s nagging,” Sam mutters out of earshot of both Rafe and Nathan.

Funny how well set up Sullivan is for a man with so many debts. The house is a step up from the apartment; Sam respects not wanting to get ripped off on a monthly basis. And though Nathan’s crashed here quite a bit already, Sam’s avoided the place as much as he does its owner.

Sullivan’s waiting for them outside, arms crossed and puffing away on a cigar.

Sam’s hand already shakes at the anticipation of being without his smokes through the prison processing. Or maybe it’s the excitement of finally following through on mom’s work on Avery.

Either way he _really_ wishes he didn’t have to suffer Sullivan’s disapproving glares in order to get there. Nathan wants this as badly as him; no amount of cajoling’s gonna make them reconsider.

Sullivan waves them toward the garage, “In here.”

There’s no car, but there are shelves lined with relics waiting for the right buyer. He’s already got a few boxes set aside for them too. Sam drops his bag into one and that’s it. Nathan takes a little more care to arrange his things.

“Is there any point in me reminding the pair of you how stupid this venture is?”

“Come on, Sully. You’re acting like we’ve never seen the inside of a prison before.”

“Never on purpose. But that’s not what concerns me. I’ve done some more digging on your new partner –”

“Here we go,” Sam doesn’t bother to stop himself.

Taking the cigar out of his mouth, “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you can’t mind your own damn business.”

“Maybe if you’d use your goddamn heads and vetted your clients better –”

“You’re one to talk.”

Sullivan closes his mouth and glares at Sam, but he’s not about to let himself be lectured by a man who doesn’t heed his own advice.

“Sure, I’ve made some mistakes. Doesn’t mean I’m not going to try to stop you boys from doing the same.”

“Well, you should. Let’s go, Nathan,” he beckons, leading the way out of the garage.

As usual, Nathan did his best to say and do nothing as Sullivan reamed Sam out for being totally irresponsible _again_.

Sam is absolutely sure of Nathan’s commitment to the _Gunsway_ treasure, even if he and Rafe can’t keep their mutual dislike to themselves, but Nathan’s silence where Sullivan in concerned stings. Sooner or later, he’s gonna have to pick a side.

He shrugs, “This might be our only shot, Sully.”

“I get it, kid,” Sullivan sighs. “Doesn’t mean I like it any better.”

“See you when we’re wealthy,” Nathan smirks, turning on his heel to join Sam.

“Hey, Nate!”

Sam can’t help but groan, “We’re on a schedule here, Sullivan.”

“I know, but Drake’s ring…”

The pair of them glance down at where it’s still hanging around Nathan’s neck.

It’s become such a part of his brother, Sam didn’t notice it hadn’t made its way into the box with the rest of his things. Obviously, Nathan didn’t either, despite _it_ being the whole reason their leaving their things _here_.

Nathan winces and bashfully lifts it over his head, placing it in Sullivan’s outstretched hand.

Sam’s jaw clenches, preventing him from accusing Sullivan of planning to sell it to the Marlowe woman while they’re gone.

But he promises Nathan, “I’ll look after it.”

His word might not be good enough for Sam, but it’s good enough for Nathan.

Rafe bristles when they finally get back in the car, “You call that quick?”

“Let’s just go,” Nathan’s suddenly in a testier mood than Sam.

“No. I’m curious, did he invite you in for drinks or something?”

“Yeah, one last drink for the condemned. Would you just drive, Rafe?”

Sam’s got no real care for Rafe either, but he’s also not stupid enough to jeopardize this venture before it’s really begun. He’s a means to an end, Sam can live with him for that long; Nathan will just have to deal.

They make their flight with minutes to spare. As Rafe settles down into first class, Sam and Nathan squeeze their way to their economy seats; despite the lack of leg room, Sam’s grateful for the distance between them. At last, he and Nathan can talk without a peanut gallery.

Lightly punching Nathan’s shoulder, “Hey. This is it. We’re _finally_ doing this.”

Even Nathan’s sour mood, can’t stop him from grinning at the prospect.

They are men of fortune after all and they’re well on their way to finding their fortune.

\----------

Sam was pushing him out the door again before Nate saw any more than mom’s body collapsed on the floor, hair splayed out hiding her face. Forcing Nate to sit against the side of the house with his head between his knees, Sam ventured back inside.

“Is mom okay?” Nate asked when Sam came back out, sliding onto the ground next to him.

Sam shook his head and they stayed out there long past dark, waiting for someone – anyone to give a shit.

Nate was asleep by the time dad finally came home, but he never dreamed of mom’s lifeless face because Sam made sure of it.

Except now, no amount of burying his face in his hands will block the vision of Sam’s pale face stained with bright red from Nate’s mind.

The tossing of the sea mimics the overturning of his world.

_Sam’s gone._

_Sam _can’t_ be gone._

_It’s not possible._

The hatch to the cabin open and Rafe intrudes on Nate’s solitude, hovering over him – the one who forced him to abandon Sam in his hour of need.

_Sam would’ve never –_

“If you’re done sulking, we need to regroup. Sam provided us with –”

Nate’s fist collides with Rafe’s chin. His knuckles throb, but at least he feels something other than the hollowness burrowing into his chest.

Rafe rubs his jaw; pity it didn’t break so Nate wouldn’t have to listen to him anymore. “Alright. Fine. I get it. You’re angry.”

“_Angry_? Angry doesn’t begin to cover it! What the hell were you thinking? Vargas would’ve let us go!”

“Like you wanted to split Avery’s prize with that fat leech any more than I did!”

“I don’t give a shit about Avery! I lost my brother because of you!” The words hit Nate harder than they do Rafe; his rage falters. “How could you – how could we just leave him?”

“Because we all would’ve wound up dead.” It is a blunt fact.

“Maybe we all would’ve been better off.” It is a dark wish, but Nate really doesn’t care.

Rafe treads carefully around him to where the Saint Dismas cross lays after Nate chucked it against the wall. He brushes it off, checking to make sure it isn’t any more broken than before.

“This doesn’t have to be a total loss.”

“We seem pretty done to me.”

_Without Sam, we’re lost. Without Sam, what’s the point?_

Holding up the cross, “Sam still left us with one clue: our next hunting ground. I’m sure Saint Dismas Cathedral is nothing but a bunch of ruins by now. It’ll cost nothing to –”

“Don’t you get it? It’s _over_.”

“Not until we find the treasure.”

Nate’s hand balls into a fist again, ready to strike; Sam isn’t here to hold him back when Rafe’s an unbearable asshole anymore.

Putting an arm out to keep some distance between them, “It’s what Sam would’ve wanted.”

Nate snaps, “What the hell do you know about what my brother would’ve wanted?”

“Your brother was more invested in this hunt than either of us. I’d bet my life, he would’ve done anything to see it through to the end.”

Rafe places the cross on the cot and the hatch creaks as he leaves Nate to face that fact alone.

He hates that Rafe is right. Sam would’ve done just about anything to find Avery’s treasure, anything except abandon him. But now, in a way, they’ve abandoned each other. Nate let go and Sam – it’s like he went into the house and never came back.

Nate’s knees give out and he sinks onto the cot. Sam wouldn’t have let him sit here by himself, trying to understand the universe’s idea of a sick joke.

Absently, he reaches for the cross and turns it over, reading the inscription.

“_Digna factis recipimus_,” he scoffs.

He’s surprised Sam didn’t take it as some sort of sign that maybe their actions were catching up to them. That maybe this wasn’t the way to make a name for themselves.

Pressing the cross to his forehead, Nate inhales deeply, _It’s what Sam would’ve wanted._

On deck, Nate finds Rafe conferring with the captain, he goes a little rigid on spotting Nate but dismisses the captain.

“Well?”

“You’re right,” Nate’s throat constricts around the words.

Rafe’s chin raises, overly satisfied.

Croaking, “I’m no Sam when it comes to knowledge on Avery but give me some time and I can figure it out.”

“I don’t follow. What exactly are you talking about, Nate?”

“I’m saying we’re partners. Equal shares – just us.”

Rafe claps Nate on the shoulder, “To Scotland?”

“To Scotland.”

Though the cathedral itself is still largely intact, most of the surrounding structures have crumbled. They start their search there, but with nothing else to go on, progress is slow.

As Nate thumbs through tome after tome of the monks’ texts for any connection to the famed pirate, the bruise beneath his eye fades.

“Anything?” Rafe pesters as he snaps another shut.

“Not yet,” Nate grits his teeth; he has no one to blame but himself for partnering with this asshole now.

Rafe’s jaw clenches; possibly still feeling the impact of Nate’s fist, probably regretting his choice in partner as well.

Some days, Nate can block Rafe out; those are the days he’s so focused on his research he forgets to eat. And then there are the days Nate can’t spend another minute in the cathedral, the eyes of the three men upon the crosses boring into the back of his neck wherever he goes; Rafe’s voice louder than ever.

Despite the highland winds, Nate takes to walking along the cliffside when he can’t bear Rafe anymore. The crash of the waves against the rocks below, remind him of how they slammed against the side of the ship, ready to swallow him whole. He wishes they had.

The rocks beneath his feet tumble over the edge and plummet into the water below. Nate contemplates the fall – the weightlessness, the freedom, the release from all else. It would be so much easier than living with this emptiness in his chest.

He takes another step closer, before his instinct to grab the edge kicks in. Nate throws himself backwards, crawling on elbows and knees away from the cliff.

Breathing heavily, he turns over and stares up at the grey sky.

What Sam would’ve wanted or not, if the choice is Rafe or the precipice, he doesn’t know what he’s doing here anymore.

The New Orleans air takes some of the chill out of his bones.

“Whatever’s strongest,” he tells the barkeep.

Whiskey does the job better.

At the bottom of the glass, a specter stares up at Nate. He blinks and rubs his eyes, realizing it’s his own reflection. The momentary flash is enough to induce him to order another.

And then another.

He must’ve found the most pathetic bar in the city not to get thrown out, drink after drink burning his throat, but it takes two men to carry him out the door at close.

Stumbling through the early hours of the morning, Nate drags his duffel bag along the ground and props himself up against a wall for a few minutes of fitful sleep.

Conscious or not, Sam’s ghost won’t leave him alone. But at least the stab to his chest each time Nate catches it in the corner of his eye isn’t as sharp when he’s drunk.

The next days are a blur, arriving at any bar he can find as soon as it opens and planting himself on a stool until close. He cringes against the daylight, preferring side-streets with little traffic to hide down during the day. Sometimes he succeeds in not puking his guts out, sometimes not.

Nate must’ve ended up at the same bar a few nights in a row because the bartender refuses to serve him when he sits down. Nate’s miserable enough to take a swing at the man, too drunk to hit, but the end result is the same; he resists the bouncer as the bartender calls the police.

The holding cell bench is cool against the back of his head, easing his throbbing headache. It’s just beginning to subside when the cell door opens with a loud clattering.

Nate groans in protest.

“Jesus, kid. What the goddamn hell swallowed you and spat you back out?”

He doesn’t remember calling or giving the cops Sully’s number, but it’s a relief to see him, even if every other part of him feels like shit. 

Helping him upright, Sully asks again, “What happened, Nate?”

“Sam’s dead,” the words taste worse than vomit.

\----------

It takes more than a little persuasion to get Nate off his couch.

And once he’s sobered up, Sully pours him some coffee and coaxes a more coherent explanation out of him than the one he got the other night. The kid’s face is ashen, the words getting caught in his throat throughout.

“I’m sorry,” Sully offers up his poor consolation.

Nate stares into his mug, not drinking, but holding it as it slowly cools. If he doesn’t want to say any more, Sully doesn’t need to hear any more.

When Nate goes into the garage to sort through his things, Sully leaves him be. Coming back inside, he asks for Drake’s ring. Sully retrieves it from the safe and presses it into Nate’s palm.

Pulling it over his head, Nate declares, “Time to get back to work.”

It doesn’t quite have the same bravado Sully’s used to hearing from Nate.

Sully gets Nate what jobs he can, even if they are low paying. Yet somehow Nate keeps winding up back here.

No one’s looking to hire a solo thief with no reputation, at least not for any gigs of substance or money. Partnered work is easier to come by; most jobs require two or three thieves minimum to pull off successfully. But his cut keeps getting negotiated down to almost nothing.

Eventually, Nate starts taking on the brunt of finding for work himself. Sully can’t tell if it’s out of determination or irritation.

But Sully’s concerned. Nate’s never found any gigs or made contacts on his own; he always let someone else take the lead, content to follow until it was time to climb something.

Sully reminds him to be wary, “Stay clear of the bad boys.”

His jaw tightens then Nate snorts, “Too late.”

Of course, he’s already had the pinnacle of bad partners. Comparatively, no one else can screw Nate over quite as badly, Sully concedes.

“Besides. Beggars can’t be choosers, right?”

Sully hates the phrase, but Nate’s scraping the bottom of the barrel and getting picky about his partners isn’t going to make getting work any easier.

Conceding, “I guess not. And, hell, it’s not like this business doesn’t have plenty of other risks.”

He doesn’t know if he should be relieved or worried when Nate doesn’t appear on his couch again a week later. It should be a good thing, but given recent events, Sully holds his breath.

There’s a call on the answering machine when he gets back from Moscow.


	3. Another head aches, another heart breaks

A series of small gigs keeps him occupied, but leaves Nate stranded in Montevideo with just enough cash for room and board, but not a ticket out of here.

Calling Sully to come get him is a last resort.

“Come on. Come on. Pick up,” he mutters while it rings and rings. But shit out of luck, all he gets is the answering machine.

Nate slams the pay phone back on the receiver.

He really should be saving his money, but he needs a drink.

Taking the only empty seat at the bar, Nate rolls his eyes at the guy next to him, failing to hail the bartender. His Spanish is so abysmal, Nate’s sure the bartender’s purposefully ignoring him.

When the man swears under his breath, Nate catches a distinctly English accent.

“You know, he might actually serve you if you stopped butchering the Spanish language and just ordered in English,” Nate interjects.

“I’d like to see you do better, mate,” he rolls his eyes.

Nate’s Spanish isn’t flawless, but it’s enough to get by. He picked up quite a bit in prison, even if it is mostly swearing and insults.

The bartender lifts a brow but gets Nate a pint of whatever’s on tap and he slides it to his new compatriot.

“Thanks,” he grumbles, slapping a few pesos on the counter.

“You can pay for mine too to show your appreciation.”

“Careful. Someone else might think you were flirting with them.”

Shrugging, he flashes a teasing grin, “Would stealing your heart pay for my beer?”

The man bursts into laughter, “Oh that is rich, mate.” Still snickering, he pulls it together enough to extend his hand, “Harry Flynn and you are?”

“Drake. Nathan Drake – Nate.” He winces at how stupid that must’ve sounded, but Flynn doesn’t seem to have noticed.

Nate’s not sure if he should be flattered or offended by the way Flynn’s eyeing him now. He tries leaning toward flattered; Flynn’s not too bad looking himself.

“Would you say you’re particularly adept at theft? And I don’t mean hearts, Romeo.”

His interest in Flynn’s conversation suddenly spikes; he’s surprised he didn’t recognize Flynn as a treasure hunter right away. Fellow thieves are usually pretty good at sniffing each other out, especially in places like these.

“Been making a living of stealing since I was a kid,” Nate sees no reason not to boast, especially now that this is a job interview. “What sort of thing are you talking about?”

“There’s an artifact in the private collection of an ex-general that I’ve been contracted to obtain for a former rival. I’ve got all the access codes and safe combinations, the problem is –”

“They’re all in Spanish,” Nate hazards a guess.

“Bingo. What are the chances you’d be willing to split the reward?”

“Depends. What sort of cut are we talking?”

Flynn leans back in his seat considering, “Well, it is my gig and my contact. I’m thinking twenty percent.”

It’d be enough to get Nate home, but a little extra never hurt anyone. “Forty. You wouldn’t want me leading you in the wrong direction now, would you?”

“My plane ticket’s more expensive than yours, mate. Thirty.”

“Thirty-five.”

“Done.”

They shake on it. Nate ignores Sully’s warnings nagging at the back of his head as they finish their drinks; he’s not going to look a gift horse in the mouth.

In hindsight, maybe he should’ve. Or maybe he shouldn’t have translated everything ahead of time. But the real trouble didn’t come until they reached the general’s private collection.

As Flynn disarms the alarm, Nate’s attention wanders to the letters on display from Portuguese and Spanish explorers vividly describing the Charrúa resistance and the treasures they suspected them of protecting. Nate can’t help but scan the letters closer for any evidence such treasures existed; his sixteenth century Spanish has always been better than his modern Spanish anyway.

Satisfied the colonizers might’ve actually been onto something, Nate turns to show Flynn, only to find him and the artifact have vanished.

“Crap.”

Bolting for the nearest exit, a three-story high window, an alarm is tripped.

Nate ducks into an alcove, waiting for the guards to come for him before he realizes it must’ve been Flynn, the idiot. With the guards after Flynn, Nate’s escape is clean and simple.

He can’t help but think it serves Flynn right for double-crossing him as he scales the outer wall to safety. It’s why he’s surprised when he gets tapped on the shoulder the next morning.

Flynn grimaces at him through the bruises and split lip.

“Jesus. What the hell happened to you?”

“Guards caught up with me. Just managed to slip away, but only after they’d got the artifact back.”

“Should’ve stuck with me. Would’ve had an easy escape without tripping the alarms.”

“No hard feelings, right mate?”

Nate should be angrier, but Flynn got what was coming for him. And now they’re both stranded and strapped for cash.

He pats the seat next to him, “Maybe next time, you’ll think twice before running out on your partner. Besides, we might not be completely out of luck yet.”

“Do tell.” There’s a flicker in Flynn’s eye Nate really should’ve noticed before. Maybe he’ll heed it later on.

Maybe he’ll remember no one else is looking out for him now.

\----------

“Why don’t I drive this time?”

“How gentlemanly of you, but,” Chloe purses her lips, pretending to consider it, “no.”

“Oh, come on,” Nate protests weakly. “I’m the one who knows where we’re going.”

“But I’m the better driver. It doesn’t say ‘Best Driver in the Business’ on my card for nothing.”

“You have business cards?”

“I might one day, if I ever felt the urge to waste money on a piece of scrap paper.”

Nate smirks, holding the car door open for her, “Who am I to argue with a lady’s nonexistent credentials?”

“Glad you see it my way,” Chloe winks, making sure to brush up against him as she takes the wheel.

It’s fun – this game of chicken they’ve struck up with each other.

Gradually, their banter has turned from playful to flirtatious, getting closer to ruining their professional relationship with each round. They might have already if Nate didn’t keep backing down at the last moment.

Perhaps it’s a good thing, keeping them focused on the treasure. Sex has a bad habit of making a mess of a job. Still it’s curious.

It’s not from a lack of interest; Chloe’s caught Nate glancing at her bum too often over the past few days to know it’s not that. Except more of his grins seem to be from the thrill of the chase rather than their tête-à-têtes. Even the spark in Nate’s eye as he climbs in the passenger seat reminds her: treasure hunting used to be more than a job to her too.

After a run of bad partners, Chloe nearly forgot what it was like to work with someone who could keep up with her. With Nate, she occasionally has to catch _her_ breath.

Out of the city and into the wilds, where there’s no more road to follow, Nate takes the lead. He darts up cliffside and leaps across ravines as though nothing were more natural.

Chloe isn’t all that far behind, affording her an excuse to stare shamelessly at Nate’s backside, but she hadn’t prepared for a romp through the jungle when she took the job with Manu. This is practically a different gig than the one she signed up for.

She keeps looking over her shoulder, expecting her ex-partner to catch up to them with a host of mercenaries at his beck and call. But without the artifact, Manu wouldn’t have a clue where to go. The moment she and Nate shook hands, he was left in the dust.

“Come on! We’re nearly there!” Nate calls from up above.

“On my way!” Chloe shouts back, trying to catch up.

A rock slips beneath her foot on a landing and suddenly his grip is all that’s keeping Chloe from tumbling over the edge.

“Careful. That’s a long way to fall.”

The gleam in his eye makes Chloe’s toes tingle. “Lucky you were here to catch me.”

“Maybe I should put that on my business card,” he suggests, chuckling.

“I can just imagine, ‘Nathan Drake: Here to Save You from a Fifty-Foot Drop’.”

“I was thinking, more along the lines of, ‘Nathan Drake: Here to Sweep You Off Your Feet’.”

Crooking her brow, “Then why are mine still on the ground?”

She doesn’t care if sex makes business messy, she’s tired of Nate slamming on the brakes. And if it’s an absolute disaster – well, then they never have to see each other again after this gig.

Nate grins, “Figured I’d take you to dinner first.”

“I usually prefer something more exciting than dinner.”

“That can be arranged.” And with one hand, Nate grabs Chloe around the waist and with the other, slings his grappling hook across the ravine. “Hold tight.”

Chloe barely has time to loop her arms around his neck before Nate leaps. Her stomach swoops as they soar through the air; her shout is a more like a whoop of delight.

It’s a shock when her feet are firmly on the ground again. Breathless and beaming, “You’re absolutely crazy!”

For a split moment, his grin is traced with more than amusement, his chest heaving so closely against hers – if it weren’t for the assault rifle gunfire echoing from the valley below, that likely would’ve been the end of their mostly professional relationship.

Instead, the race is on.

“Think you can cover us?”

“’Course I can,” Chloe insists.

“Good. Cause you ain’t seen nothing yet.”

And off they go again; this time Chloe’s scream is mildly terrified.

A small gang fires at them as they hurdle through the air, one landing to the next. Chloe fires back, hardly making the effort to aim.

Nate doesn’t stop until they’ve lost their competitors completely. He doubles over, winded.

Trying to keep her legs from wobbling, “I take it back, dinner sounds lovely and calm.”

“How about I get you something shiny to make up for it?” Nate points behind her.

Following the direction of his finger, Chloe can’t believe it. Somehow, despite the mad dash, they managed to wind up right in front of the sealed entrance.

Nates offers her the artifact from the museum, “Care to do the honors?”

The relic clicks in place to reveal a cave of glimmering gold and silver trinkets untouched by daylight in centuries. They gasp; Chloe grabs Nate’s arm in order to steady herself.

“You certainly know how to show a girl a good time,” she teases. “Points for originality too.”

Unabashed, “Yeah? And what do I get for such high marks?”

Closing the gap between them, “I’m sure we can find a suitable reward.”

Nate meets her halfway with a crash, her tongue slipping into his mouth. She can feel the smirk tug at his lips as his hands find their way around her to cup her ass.

If it weren’t for the competition closing in on them, Chloe imagines they would be tearing off each other’s clothes already. In the gaps for air, Chloe reminds him they have to get a move on.

Shoving the most valuable pieces into the backpacks and pockets, they repel down the cliff as if their lives and not their libidos depended on it.

Back at the ramshackle inn on the edge of the jungle, Chloe hangs the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on their door.

“As if it wasn’t obvious what we’re up to in here,” Nate chuckles.

“That’s the idea,” Chloe winks.

Leaping at him, Nate falls back onto the bed.

In a flurry of limbs, they discard their clothes. Each inch of freshly exposed skin is explored by their hands and mouths. God, Chloe knew fucking each other was inevitable, but she hadn’t anticipated Nate’s dedication to treasure hunting to extend to the bedroom.

Chloe acknowledges sex certainly has a way of making business messy, but it’s such a bore to separate professional and pleasurable. This way is infinitely more fun.

Tomorrow they’ll split the treasure and go their own ways – simple. Though after tonight, Chloe would say future partnerships definitely aren’t out of the question.

\----------

When Marlowe told him never to forget the name Drake again, Talbot committed himself to the task. Studying up on the explorer and his involvement with the Hermetic Order, even when his body has been strained to its limit by training exercises.

It was foolish of him to think it would be so simple an assignment.

The new dossier in front of him bears the same name, but it contains all the known information on another man entirely.

Talbot reads a dozen arrest reports dating all the way back to 1991 when the so-called Nathan Drake was just a boy. It’s as though Drake were the perfectly designed adversary for him; his skills matching Talbot’s own, though lacking the refinement that Marlowe has drilled into him.

He still fails to see the Order’s interest in the man himself. Drake’s a thief and a fraud, parading around as some lost descendant of Sir Francis, nothing more.

He drops the file on Marlowe’s desk, “Care to quiz me?”

Her lip quirks at the challenge, but as usual rises above it, “I’m sure you’ve done your research to my satisfaction, but are you prepared for your true assignment?”

Talbot’s sure his face betrays how eagerly he’s awaited this. “I’m ready.”

“We shall see.” Marlowe slides an enlarged photo across her desk; the silver ring Talbot noticed in several images in the dossier comes into clearer view. “Your mission is to obtain _this_.”

Brow furrowing, “A ring?”

“It’s not just any ring. It belonged to Sir Francis Drake, a gift from Queen Elizabeth.”

“Why not just offer to purchase it off him? The Order has the money, and he has enough financial troubles.”

“Were it that simple, we would have it already. But unfortunately, there’s the small matter of the man’s pride. You see, he truly believes he is Drake’s heir.”

“Rather presumptuous,” Talbot tsks. “Who is he really?”

Marlowe’s face contorts, “That particular detail has eluded the Order thus far, but regardless, his true identity is irrelevant.”

It’s not like Marlowe to dismiss details; any little thing might give Talbot the advantage on his new opponent. But perhaps she is right. What good will it do him to know Drake’s real name if it comes down to a contest of strength?

Talbot has no doubt it will come to that once he starts trailing Drake through Madrid. Even when Drake sits down to negotiate with a buyer, it somehow turns into a fistfight.

He’s almost never unaccompanied either. Talbot recognizes the older man from the dossier as well; Victor Sullivan, former associate of the Order. Marlowe warned him he might have to contend with Drake’s mentor too.

Confident as he is in his own abilities, Talbot’s not willing to risk those odds.

Patience is key, something Talbot has observed Drake lacks.

Speed will be too; Drake’s reflexes are good, but Talbot knows he’s quicker.

It’s near dusk when Talbot’s opportunity finally arises. Separated from Sullivan, Drake wanders directly below Talbot. Pouncing, he catches Drake off guard, but Talbot fails to get a chokehold before he’s slammed into the wall, forcing him to let go.

Drake stares at him as he recovers, utterly baffled, “Who the hell are you?”

“I suppose that’s the question we’re both asking.”

He doesn’t wait for Drake to process his response, diving forward to throw him off balance.

The ring flies around on its string before Talbot’s eyes as he collides with Drake’s stomach. All he would have to do is snatch it up and sprint away.

But Drake’s more of a brawler than Talbot and as easily gets the upper hand. He throws hard and heavy punches, putting Talbot on the defensive. Talbot still manages to get in a few quick jabs when he swings wide.

“Seriously? For someone who decided to start a fight, finishing it doesn’t seem to be your strong suit.”

Talbot rubs the sweat from his brow with his shirt sleeve, which for some reason makes Drake’s smirk grow wider.

“You have no idea who you’re dealing with.”

“I would, if you’d introduced yourself before asking me to dance.”

No wonder Marlowe despises him. His cocky demeanor shows no respect for his betters.

Luckily, his orders are to bring Marlowe the ring by any means necessary because Talbot utterly underestimated his opponent; he won’t be winning this fight fairly.

Reaching for the switchblade in his back pocket, “Of course. Where are my manners? Marlowe sends her regards.”

He watches as Drake’s eyes widen in shock and Talbot grins, tossing the blade; it sinks into Drake’s leg. Clutching at the hilt, Drake yells, torn between yanking it out to stop the pain or bleeding out, but at least it’s slowed him down. Talbot rushes him again.

A gunshot echoes through the alley before Talbot can close the distance. He throws himself to the ground, narrowly dodging the bullet.

On the ground, Talbot spies Victor Sullivan. Talbot thought he heeded Marlowe’s warning about his irritating habit of interfering well enough, but he miscalculated. One-on-one, he could have beaten Drake; his only choice now is to retreat.

Scrambling to his feet, he launches himself toward the nearest fire escape, gunfire chasing him as he runs.

He reports his failure to Marlowe.

She is less than surprised, “I suspected a direct approach would be unsuccessful.”

“You’re not angry?”

Her silence is palpable.

Finally, “We were impatient to test your skills against Drake’s, but it would seem Victor Sullivan’s whelp has learned a few more tricks since our last encounter.”

Talbot’s blood boils. He was ready, he had the advantage, he should’ve finished the job. “I won’t fail you again. I need twenty-four hours and I’ll have it –”

“No. You will return to headquarters and we will reconsider our strategy. Injured or not, you won’t get passed Sullivan now.”

The failure stings, the refusal to let him finish what he started drives it in deeper, but Talbot does as he’s ordered. He will face Drake again another day.

\----------

Sully catches one word in Nate’s explanation to the doctor stitching him up, ‘_asaltador_’.

Turning away from the doctor, he shrugs, “It’s not complete bullshit.”

They won’t let him smoke in here, so Sully crosses his arm and grunts, “I turned my back for one goddamn second and you’re –”

Nate hisses as the sutures prick a tad too sharply. He bites his tongue in anticipation of further pain, tactically delaying his explanation. Like he can hide this sort of shit from Sully.

“That wasn’t some run-of-the-mill mugger, kid. He was too well trained. And wearing a suit, for Christ’s sake – or did you think I wouldn’t notice?”

Still, Nate holds onto his silence until the doctor finishes up, leaving to complete the discharge paperwork.

Swallowing, “He said ‘Marlowe sends her regards’.”

“Goddamn it, kid. I told you she wouldn’t stop coming after you.”

“I know. I know, Sully. But it’s been what – eight years since we last caught wind of her?”

It’s true. Marlowe’s operation has been unsettlingly quiet. Sully can’t even think of the last time he heard a rumor of a prize Marlowe might be after. In his experience, all that means is she must be plotting something big.

“Besides,” Nate’s usual cockiness returns, “I would’ve had the smarmy bastard even if you hadn’t of shown up.”

Sully sorts, “Yeah. You _really _had him on the ropes. You’re lucky that knife didn’t hit something vital.”

Nate’s acting like an idiot, but Sully gets what he means. It was a sloppy assault, not one of Marlowe’s carefully planned and meticulously executed plots.

He’s never known Katherine to so seriously miscalculate or send in incompetent thugs to complete tasks so crucially important to her. She doesn’t do empty threats either; this wasn’t meant to prove she’s close on their heels.

This was something else. Marlowe’s fingerprint may be on it, but she wasn’t entirely behind it.

“I’m surprised _you_ missed.”

“What the hell are you talking about, kid?”

“You probably could’ve gotten a few more rounds off before he vanished. We could’ve found out what the Wicked Witch of the West was up to.”

“How much blood did you lose?” Sully grumbles. “He was too damn fast to hit.”

Come to think of it, the only person Sully’s ever seen scramble up a fire escape like that is Nate. Sully suddenly chuckles to himself; he knows what Marlowe’s game is.

Nate looks at him like he’s lost his mind, “What’s so funny?”

“Marlowe’s created her own version of you.”

He should’ve realized right off the bat. The assailant doesn’t quite have Nate’s natural ability, but it hasn’t stopped Marlowe honing his skills in a protégé of her own. The knifework’s a nice touch to try to compensate for what her new lacky lacks.

But Nate doesn’t find it nearly as funny as Sully, frowning as he looks down at the stitches.

Sully groans, “Don’t be like that, kid.”

“Like what?”

“All mopey.”

“What do you expect, Sully? I thought I was finally making it on my own, but to everyone else I’ll always be Victor Sullivan’s tagalong.”

Sully stares at Nate long and hard. Despite fixing Sully with the same look as that boy who insisted on not being called ‘son’, Nate isn’t that kid anymore. It feels like Sully’s always been chasing after Nate, but he’s got nothing left to teach him.

Rubbing the back of his neck, “You know I don’t see you like that – right, Nate? I haven’t for a long time now.”

Still sullen, “Yeah, right.”

“I mean it. You’re my partner, not my damn protégé. My fairly useless partner, at the moment,” Sully laughs, slapping Nate’s wounded leg, “but my partner, nonetheless.”

“Ah, crap. That hurts, Sully,” Nate sucks the pain through his teeth.

“Maybe next time, don’t screw up our gig by getting yourself injured before the heist.”

“No promises,” he smirks.

As unpredictable as he is, Sully would rather have Nate at his side than any other partner.

\----------

Not his most graceful exit to be sure, spilling out through the window onto the street, but Nate still got away with the map.

He’s just damn lucky he ran headlong into Chloe while making his escape and she was able to misdirect the cronies on his tail as he bolted down an alley to disappear.

Finally catching his breath, he waits for Chloe to find him again at a nearby bar.

“Now there’s an ass worth saving,” Chloe sidles up next to him. “There a particular reason you’ve got dogs out hunting for you?”

“You know there is,” he grins. “But I can’t show you here.”

“You can’t thank me here properly either,” she raises her brow.

Nate drapes an arm over her shoulders, pulling her in for a long kiss. “How’s that for starters?”

It is just for starters; Chloe barely lets him finish explaining where the map will lead them when the promise of ancient amulet turns her on. Nate expresses his gratitude to her for saving his skin by ensuring no inch of hers goes unappreciated.

Distracting Chloe with a hot trail of kisses across her collar bone, Nate’s fingers find their way lower, then deeper into her.

She gasps and suddenly her nails dig into his shoulder blades.

“Shit. Ow. A little warning before you sink your claws into me.”

“I would say the same, but I rather enjoyed my surprise.”

“Really?”

Continuing to move his fingers in slow circles, he licks his lips. Once she’s relaxed, he seizes the opportunity to dive between her thighs. She squeals, shuddering in anticipation as his mouth inches closer. Nate reaches upward to steady her hips and gets to work.

In a business where they’re both constantly on the move, meeting new people, it’s bewildering to Nate that after two years they’re not bored with each other yet – that they keep coming back to each other. But then, Nate’s never been with anyone this long before – if they can call it that.

They haven’t discussed it in explicit terms, but Nate hasn’t slept with anyone else and he’s pretty sure Chloe hasn’t either. They meet by chance or by design in some new city and get their thrills hunting treasure then get their kicks back at the hotel.

_God, I sound like Sully_, the thought instantly kills his mood. Thankfully, Chloe hasn’t seemed to notice something’s amiss.

Emerging, Chloe chuckles at him, “Your hair is a mess.”

He grins lopsidedly, “The price of good service.”

“Mmm. You can say that again.”

Chloe’s legs hook around his middle as she pins him to the bed.

Ordinarily, Nate would be pleased to be in this position, but something is off.

And it’s not Sully’s voice rattling around in his head about women either, though that certainly isn’t helping.

Sully used to warn Nate to be careful of clingy women – the kind that if they tangled him in their embrace, they would drag him out to sea. But Chloe’s not some siren threatening to drown him beneath the tide.

Things are good with Chloe – better than good. If Nate’s honest, things haven’t been this good since – well, for a long time.

Her voice echoes through a thick haze, “Hello? Earth to Nate. You in there, Nate?”

“Yeah, sorry. Zoned out for a second there,” he pinches his nose.

“Honestly, it’s bad enough while we’re working. But during sex?”

Trying to make up for his lack of focus, he reaches for her ass and squeezes, “Where were we?”

For the rest of the night, Chloe ensures his mind doesn’t wander again and Nate mood improves dramatically, for the time being.

In the morning, the hunt feels somehow rote, like they’ve been chased down this street before, barely ahead of their rivals. They would probably run this way indefinitely, if it wasn’t for the fork in the road.

Out of breath, Chloe panics slightly, “Which way?”

Nate stared at the map just long enough to know which direction they _should_ be heading.

He points Chloe down that road, “You go that way.” Jerking his thumb behind him, “I’ll go this way.”

“No way. We stick together – that was the plan.”

“We’re not going to lose them if we don’t split up.”

Chloe opens her mouth to argue further.

Pressing the map into her hand instead, “They still think I have it.” Nate assures her, “I’ll meet you at the edge of the city before nightfall.”

“You stupid –” Chloe cuts herself off, kissing him more fiercely than she ever has before, almost too intensely given the danger at their backs. “Don’t be late.”

She plants another swift kiss on him and darts away. Drawing their pursuers in the opposite direction, Nate gives them the slip before they realize they’ve been misled.

Turning around, he follows in Chloe’s tracks, but it’s still hours before he catches up to her just outside the city walls. She rocks back and forth on her heels, anticipating his arrival, and Nate just freezes, unseen to her.

Despite everything – despite how good things are and how alive working and being with Chloe feels, Nate can’t will himself to move.

Minutes stretch into hours and the most Nate can do is chastise himself for his cowardice. _What the hell are you doing?_

As the sky darkens, Chloe’s anxiety grows ever more apparent, biting her lip.

Hearing something rustle in the trees behind her, he can see her body floods with relief. “Oh, thank god, Nate. What the hell took you so –”

But it’s not him. Chloe’s shoulders droop as she stares into the woods, still waiting.

Nate swallows the hard lump in his throat, _It’s not her – it’s me._

He can’t keep up anymore. Not the running and climbing and adventure of it all, but whatever it was that fueled her parting kiss; she feels something deeper for him than he does. Or maybe he does feel something, and it scares him to death.

His instincts for survival kick in, commanding his body to turn tail. Better to run the other way than face the uncertainty of his feelings.

Days later, he hears through the grapevine the amulet he was after is on the market.

Nate hopes whatever cash Chloe gets for it makes up for abandoning her halfway through, but he can’t stop wondering how much longer she waited for him.

\----------

“You’ve got to be goddamn kidding me, Nate. Did you forget what happened last time you worked with him?”

“Course not, Sully. But he’s a better lockpick than either of us –”

“And a no-good double-crosser –”

“Hey, old-timer. I’m standing right here,” Harry reminds them he’s standing three feet away.

Sullivan rolls his eyes, evidentially not giving a shit if Flynn can hear him or not. “We can’t trust him; you can be goddamn sure about that.”

“Relax, Sully. It’ll be a quick in and out job, and we won’t take our eyes off him. Isn’t that right, Flynn?”

“I’ll be on my absolute best behavior, grandpa.”

Honestly, Harry was quite surprised to hear from Drake again after their last gig. But really, how could Drake have expected any less than taking the fall after getting them into that mess in the first place? Fair’s fair, and Harry, for one, is glad Drake sees it his way.

His partner, on the other hand, grunts in disapproval.

Making their preparations, Harry pulls Drake out of Sullivan’s earshot, “You’re not gonna let him shoot me in the back, are you, mate?”

A third man providing cover is not unappreciated, just uncomfortable when allied with a man Harry’s screwed over more than once.

Rolling his eyes, “Both of you need to have a little faith in people.”

There it is, that most reliable way to dupe others – blind trust. Drake’s got an abundance of it too, which almost makes playing him too easy. All Harry has to do is pretend he’s sorry and they’re friends again.

But even with Drake’s assurance that Sullivan will keep in line, Harry doesn’t take his eye off the older man.

Heading into the camp, Harry and Drake silently knock out the patrol. Closer to the main tent, things aren’t quite so easy. More guards swarm the area than they accounted for – more than he and Drake can really handle on their own.

_BANG._ A bullet whizzes past Harry’s head, sinking into the guy coming up behind him.

Stunned, he stares back into the trees where Sullivan must be situated with the snipe rifle. The bullet was so close, Harry can’t help wondering if Sullivan meant to hit him instead.

The camp scrambles to find the source of the gunfire, but Sullivan’s already way ahead of them, circling the perimeter and firing off more shots from all angles on the camp.

“So much for stealth,” Drake mutters, darting into the main tent.

Harry stumbles in after him, coming face to face with the lead archeologist. Harry wishes to god it was some dweeby, bespectacled man like in the movies, but no such luck. A great, big, burly man stands up from his desk.

Nervously chuckling, Drake asks, “You don’t mind us dropping in, do you?”

The archeologist rushes Drake, keeping him distracted as Harry dives for the safe.

It’s a simple enough lock. Travel safes are never the most secure objects, but still Harry has to try three separate picks before finding the right one to pry it open. Except the crashes from Drake’s fight make it impossible to keep a steady hand.

“Would you keep it down over there, mate? I’m trying to concentrate.”

“You wanna switch jobs?”

Drake ducks under a swing and the archeologist realizes what they’re doing. He barrels down on Harry as the lock clicks promisingly.

“I got it!”

And then he’s in a headlock.

The archeologist squeezes his neck, “Good luck getting away with anything when you’re dead.”

Harry’s vision blurs, running out of air.

_CRASH._ A chair smashes over the archeologist’s head, knocking him to the floor.

“Holy shit. I can’t believe that worked,” Drake’s surprised by his success.

“Never mind that. Let’s grab the loot and get the fuck out of here!”

Harry clambers back to the safe, shoving everything into his backpack before he realizes the talisman is missing. “Fuck. It’s not here.”

“Crap. They must’ve shipped it out of here as soon as they found it.”

“So much for our big payday.”

The other gold and trinkets don’t have nearly enough value to soften the blow, but Harry continues to grab them anyway. This gig won’t be a total loss.

Following Drake back out of the tent, the chaos and confusion caused by Sullivan rears its ugly head; there are guards everywhere and it’s not worth their time to fight their way out of here. They bolt for the edge of the clearing, hoping to lose them in the jungle.

Men trip over themselves, trying to catch them. Gunfire follows them for a short while before being swallowed by the thick tangle of the underbrush.

Despite the loss of the talisman, Harry cackles, “Those wankers never knew what hit them – eh, Drake? Drake?”

Harry slows to a stop, realizing his compatriot has either fallen behind or ditched him completely. And if Harry knows anything about Drake, it’s more likely the latter.

“Oh you absolute knob.”

“You referring to me?”

Drake’s voice comes from above. Harry’s flooded with a mixture of annoyance and relief.

“How the hell did you get up there?” he asks, examining the cliffside for any handholds or sturdy vines to follow Drake. “Give me a hand up.”

Hemming and hawing dramatically, “I don’t think so.”

“Seriously? Come on, mate. Let’s get out of here.”

“You ever heard of a good, old-fashioned thing called payback?”

“Really? Now you’re gonna be petty? Don’t be such a prat, I’ve got the goods.”

Drake pulls something out of his backpack – the talisman. “As they say, payback’s a bitch.”

Harry’s mouth hangs open as Sullivan appears at Drake’s side. “It’s shame you weren’t in on this one from the start, Flynn.”

“Maybe then you would’ve known we intended to double-cross you once we had the talisman, but at least, you’re not walking away completely empty handed.”

“That is if he manages to get out of this goddamn jungle,” Sullivan chuckles.

Drake half-salutes, “See you around, Flynn.”

Harry shouts insults at them as they turn their backs on him, but it’s pointless. They’re long gone by the time there’s enough light to find his way out of here.

He really should’ve seen that one coming.


	4. So much older than I can take

Navarro’s pacing has gotten quite distracting really. Sullivan’s focus keeps slipping from the matter at hand.

Roman draws his attention back, “As you’re well aware, I don’t take kindly to late installments.”

“I’m already paying goddamn interest on the loan, how much more do you want?”

“It’s not _just_ about the money, Sullivan. It’s the principle of the thing. If I let the deadline slide for one person, everyone will expect extensions and that simply won’t do.”

“Principle,” Sullivan scoffs.

This is what he gets for lending money to common criminals; they only understand one thing: self-preservation. Thankfully, Sullivan speaks another common language.

“Speaking as one businessman to another, you must understand where I’m coming from.”

“You can have your lacky over there bust my kneecaps, it won’t get you what I don’t have.”

Roman rubs his temple, “No, I suppose it won’t, but it is reliable incentive to produce what others in your position are usually hiding.”

“If only,” Sullivan grumbles. “Unless –”

“Unless what?”

“Unless, there was another way for me to get your money and then some.”

“What in God’s name are you going on about, Sullivan?”

He smirks beneath his moustache, “My partner’s got something big in the works.”

Roman will admit, he’s intrigued, but Sullivan’s word has lost some of its credibility with him. He won’t be taken for a fool by a desperate man. “How big?”

“Lost treasure _big_.”

Navarro growls behind him, “He’s lying.”

“Indeed,” Roman agrees; it’s too impossibly good to be true. “Care to do the honors, Navarro?”

“As you say,” he cracks his knuckles. Possibly about to enjoy this a little too much.

“Hold up just a minute. I swear, I’m being totally honest here.”

“Prove it,” Roman demands.

“I can’t prove it – my partner has all the clues we’ve got so far.”

This is the second time Sullivan has mentioned this supposed partner of his. Yet another reason to suspect Sullivan of foul play; some of Sullivan’s partners are the less than amenable sort.

“I’ve never known you to work with a partner before. Who is it?”

“His name’s Drake. He’s a real pain in my ass, if I’m honest. Reckless, but damn smart. And when he’s got a hunch – well, let’s just say, he doesn’t settle for small prizes.”

Roman’s unconvinced, “You expect me to trust the hunch of a man I’ve never heard of just so you can get off scot free? You’ll have to do much better than that.” Laughing, “Navarro, please continue –”

“Wait. I’ll give you collateral.”

Now that’s interesting. “What sort?”

“My plane. I’ll hand over the title and registration. And if Drake doesn’t deliver – well, then it’s yours.”

Roman’s never known Sullivan to be a sentimental fool, but that plane is damn near the most valuable thing he owns. That’s a lot of faith for someone not prone to sentimentality.

Mostly satisfied, “I still expect my payment in a timely manner.”

“I’m sure my partner’s making headway as we speak.”

“He better be – for your sake.”

\----------

“Don’t mess with Eddy Raja!” he yells.

Nate rolls his eyes exaggeratedly. He doesn’t have time for this; the little guy’s not sharp enough to realize Nate’s been messing with him the whole damn time.

“Alright. Alright. Cards on the table, that relic’s worthless without the other piece.”

“And let me guess, you have the other half?”

“It’s more like a quarter of it – but yeah. And I’ll let you have it – for a price.”

“Or how about I just kill you _and _take the other piece for myself?”

“Because I don’t have it on me. Jeez, do you really think I’m as stupid as you to bring it to the deal with me?”

He’s bluffing, of course. He does have the piece of the artifact on him; he wouldn’t normally have brought it with him, but Eddy’s goons are everywhere. But Eddy really _is_ stupid enough to believe him.

Eddy screams at being made to look a fool in front of his gang, “How about I just kill you anyway?”

“I don’t think your boss would be too happy about the loss of his relic.” It’s a simple song and dance, really. Nate’s done it a thousand times with a hundred different trigger-happy goons. “All I’m asking is a look at the relic intact.”

Sure, it’d be nice to walk away with an artifact for a change, but as long as he can decipher what’s written on it before Eddy, he’ll have all the lead he needs to get to the _real _treasure first.

He’s confident Eddy won’t be able to figure it out without help, so Nate should be golden.

Suspicious, “That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

Nate holds his hands up to prove he doesn’t have his fingers crossed.

Eddy cackles, shoving his pistol into Nate’s chest. Shouting, “What did I _just _say?”

“I take it that’s a ‘no’ then?”

“Of course, it’s a fucking no!” Eddy runs out of range, waving his gun, “Shoot him!”

“Oh crap,” Nate rolls out of the way just in time for a barrage of gunfire to come raining down.

He tears after Eddy; the idiot really did bring the piece of the relic with him too. If Nate could just catch up to him…

With a scream, Eddy comes crashing down on Nate’s back, attempting to bludgeon him with the butt of his gun. “I told you, Drake! Don’t mess with Eddy Raja!”

“I get it! I heard you the first dozen times!”

Eddy does such a good job making a fool of himself, he really doesn’t need Nate’s assistance.

Nate throws Eddy off him, but as he does, there’s the clatter of metal on the floor. His piece of the relic spins on toward Eddy’s feet. They freeze in place, bewildered.

Recovering first, Nate dives for the relic, “Shit.”

“Liar!” but Eddy’s closer, snatching it out of reach and scrambling back up. “You seriously thought you could trick me? Look at you! You’re nobody!”

He cackles over Nate, still sprawled across the ground. He might’ve gone away with it, he’s been one step ahead of Eddy for weeks now, but sheer dumb luck was just not on his side today.

Slowly getting up, “Alright. You win. But I could still translate it for you.”

For a split second, Nate thinks Eddy’s considering his offer, but the moment passes, and it dawns on Eddy, “Ahh! You can’t fool me! I know what you’re after! And now I’m going to kill you!”

His aim is wild, and three bullets soar over Nate’s shoulder as he bolts. If Eddy or any of his goons followed, he loses them in the market.

Exhaling heavily as he comes out of heavily, he was _so_ close.

If he had just managed to grab the bigger piece, he might’ve had enough to go off of to find the rest of the treasure. A treasure big enough to get him the equipment he needs to find the coffin of Francis Drake.

Nate fidgets with the ring, the key to two mysteries. For so long, he’s been focused on the secrets it could unlock with the astrolabe that he neglected the other clues etched into the band.

He managed to plot the coordinates on a map ages ago. Figuring in centuries of tidal drift wasn’t so easy, but he finally narrowed down the search area to a reasonable perimeter. Now all he needs is the equipment to get him there.

There has to be a quicker way to drum up the money he needs to find out what Drake left there to find.

Flipping open his phone, Nate dials Sully.

“Hey Nate. How goes the race?”

“Bit of a setback. Eddy Raja’s got both pieces of the artifact.”

“Christ, kid.”

“I might need to borrow –”

“Don’t even think about asking, Nate. You don’t want to go down that road.”

Sighing, “Where else am I gonna get that kind of money?”

“You’ll think of something, kid. I’ve never known an obstacle like money to get in your way.”

If only that was as encouraging a sentiment as Sully wants it to be. It’s not like he can swim all the way out to sea.

“Right. Can I at least get a lift home?”

“Sure thing, kid. I’ll see you in a few hours.”

A drink usually lessens the sting of a hard loss but waiting on Sully at the bar closest to the airfield, Nate can’t shake this one off. If he just could get someone else to fund the dive.

The TV’s too loud to concentrate on who might be willing to take a chance on him. He hates to admit it, but Eddy was right; he is a nobody and nobody else is going to stake their reputation on a treasure that might not even exist.

Well – the coffin exists. Nate’s sure of that, but what it might lead to, he has theories, but no evidence.

Nate takes out his notebook to go over the clues again when the TV starts blasting bombastic music over some corny opening credits.

“Would you turn that down? Some of us are trying to think over here…”

“Join me this week as we uncover the lost history of the Aztecs. I’m Elena Fisher and _this_ is _Uncharted_.”

He trails off as he catches a glimpse of the show. Production values aren’t high, but it doesn’t diminish the host’s eagerness to show off her historical discoveries.

Before he realizes it, Nate’s sucked into the show, wondering what it would take to entice Elena Fisher to fund his expedition.

\----------

Very well pleased with her latest payday, Chloe’s more than ready to buy a round for the entire bar, only to find someone else has already beaten her to the punch.

The whole place is abuzz as if ready to celebrate her success. Except the only thing anyone gives a damn about at the moment are the snippets of rumors Chloe catches as she pushes her way through the crowd.

“Found a fucking U-boat in the Amazon –”

“Chased a band of mercenaries across the Pacific –”

“An entire lost colony –”

The crowd is so thick, Chloe has difficulty getting the bartender’s attention.

Finally spotting her, “Sorry, love. What can I get you?”

“A glass of your most expensive champagne.” She’s still celebrating after all. Conversationally, “Quite the turnout tonight. What’s got everyone in such a tizzy?”

“You haven’t heard? Some lucky bastard found El Dorado on an undiscovered island in the middle of the Pacific.”

Chloe shakes her head; she must’ve heard wrong. “Isn’t El Dorado supposed to be an ancient city of gold lost in the middle of the Amazon rainforest?”

The bartender shrugs, passing her a glass, “Apparently, history had it all wrong. It was a giant, golden statue – not a city.”

Her own victory dulls in comparison to a tale like that. Raising her glass, “Well, cheers to that lucky bastard. Any idea who it was?”

“The name I keep hearing is Nathan Drake.”

All else is white noise.

Of all the treasure hunters in the world, it had to be him.

Chloe gulps down the champagne, but she’s going to need something much stronger if this is all she’s going to hear about the rest of the night.

“Another one?”

“Whiskey straight and keep them coming.”

“Should I leave the tab open?”

“Please.”

She tries to ignore the knowing look in the bartender’s eye, the kind of look women get when they just found out their long-term boyfriends just got engaged to someone else barely a week after dumping them.

Sipping her drink, Chloe lets the rumors wash over her. The ones that people call bullshit on the most are the ones she thinks are ridiculous enough to have Nate’s name attached to them. By the morning, she remembers next to none of them.

Her next gig isn’t for a few days, so Chloe takes her time settling her accounts in the city before moving on.

Expecting a call from her client, Chloe blinks at a name she doesn’t recognize on the caller ID but is somehow in her phone.

Answering tenuously, “Chloe Frazer.”

“Chloe. It’s Harry Flynn, from the other night.”

“Sorry, who?”

“The non-Drake fan.”

_That_ rings a distant bell.

She was sulking at the bar alone when he came along, looking somehow far more miserable than her. When he told her Nate had double-crossed before, she pretended she’d never heard of him and insisted she wasn’t impressed by his big find, Harry seemed to cheer up.

They laughed about the rumor Nate had dragged an unsuspecting reporter with him throughout the ordeal.

She vaguely recalls sloppily making out in the corner, and though he obviously didn’t take advantage of her impaired judgement, he did manage to slip his contact information into her phone.

The memory comes into clearer focus as he proposes she join him on his next gig.

“I’m flattered, Harry – really. But I’ve already got a job lined up.”

“How about this: I help you with your job, then you come help me with mine?”

It would save her the trouble of finding another partner.

And if her memory is accurate, Harry was quite charming. She doesn’t think she would’ve minded spending the night with him if she had been in a state to do so.

“Alright, but it’s my gig, so you have to do things by my rules.”

“Not a problem.”

Chloe smirks; he’s in for a wild ride.

\----------

“What if we – no. That won’t work either.”

The longer Harry stares at the museum map, the more it just looks like random lines, except for the bright red spot where he knows Simmons and Moreno got caught.

Chloe looks up from plotting their escape route, “Didn’t you say before that you knew someone who cracked it? Why not ask him about it?”

Harry groans. It might kill him to admit it, but, “His method requires a third man.”

“So let’s bring him on then. What was his name again?”

“Drake,” he admits flatly. “You know, the one who discovered El Dorado.”

“Ah right. Now, I remember. Why not ask him to lend a hand?”

There are a number of reasons Harry’s reluctant to bring on a third man. The first of which being how Lazarević is bound to take it. The last of which being having no particular desire to run alongside Drake again.

Oh it’s all been good fun when they’ve worked jobs together in the past, but that was before his El Dorado fame. There’s no telling how much his ego has grown since their last gig.

“Trust me, love. It’s not worth it. He’s a right asshole and he thinks he’s _so _clever. It’s quite irritating actually.”

Chloe shrugs, “Many in our line of work are, but _he_ knows the landscape.”

Harry frowns at Chloe’s insistence.

Rolling her eyes, “It was just a suggestion.”

And an annoyingly good one at that. “What if he thinks he’s entitled to a larger cut?”

She climbs into his lap, “I don’t give a fuck what he thinks he’s entitled to. This is _our_ gig. _You_ have the client and the contract. If he wants more, we’ll find someone else.”

Chloe tugs at his fly, rolling her hips against his pelvis. Harry can’t say no to her.

When he caught her poking her nose through his research on Marco Polo, all she had to do was bat her eyelashes at him and she was on the team. If all goes well with the heist, Lazarević might even let him bring her in on the _real _job.

“Alright. I’ll ask. Maybe if we stroke his ego just enough, he’ll deign to join in on the fun.”

“That’s the spirit,” Chloe smirks, plunging her hand into his trousers.

Harry nips at her lower lip. Deciding what to do about his Nathan Drake problem can wait til the morning.

He slips out of the hotel room before Chloe’s awake, armed with a proposal for Lazarević. It hit him in the middle of the night, how to obtain their next clue without extra tagalongs. He’s got nothing against Drake really, but he’s got no qualms dicking him over either.

Except Lazarević is already short on patience when Harry makes the call. “Do not tell me you are experiencing another delay.”

“Not a delay so much as a _little_ snag. I need a third man.”

Lazarević snarls, “You assured me this was a two-man operation.”

“Well, it’s a little more complicated than that –”

“I am not paying another one of your thieves to –”

“And that’s the beauty of it,” Harry interrupts hastily, “you won’t have to. I need the third man to be a decoy. Someone to take the fall while my partner and I make our getaway.”

Lazarević mutters to himself in Serbian. Harry holds his breath, waiting for the go ahead.

Finally, “Who did you have in mind?”

Exhaling, “Another treasure hunter, by the name of Nathan Drake.”

There’s silence on the other end for an awkward moment, “Who the hell is Nathan Drake?”

Because treasure hunting is such a small world, Harry forgets anyone outside the business wouldn’t know who he was talking about. Lazarević’s ignorance would be entertaining if his rage wasn’t relentless.

“Doesn’t matter. What’s important is I’m pretty sure I can convince him to help us _and _I wouldn’t mind a bit of payback.”

“Fine. I do not care how you get the lamp. Just get it. And soon.”

The call ends before Harry can get another word in.

Chloe is up and ready when Harry gets back. “You were up absurdly early.”

“Client wanted an update. How’d you like to pay a visit to an old chum of mine?”

\----------

“Hey, Charlie. It’s Nate.”

The last time he heard from Nate, the call came with an invitation to the lad’s wedding; his surprise was only surpassed by his confusion. Charlie can only guess what Nate’s got up his sleeve this time.

“Nate, old boy, how’s married life?”

The thought of anyone in their line of work getting hitched still makes him chuckle. But after meeting the bride – well, Charlie could understand how Nate was so enticed.

It was a great wedding and an even better party – not that Charlie’s been to many. Most folks he knows aren’t willing to make that leap but watching Nate from the sidelines with Sully, it was apparent to them both it was the happiest he’d been in a long time.

Nate’s tone is strained, “Elena’s great. She’s in Yemen.”

Not exactly the sort of response Charlie was expecting.

Still, he can’t help himself from teasing the boy, “So, Sully shouldn’t be expecting a new apprentice anytime soon?”

“I didn’t really call to catch up, Charlie.”

“Alright then. Down to business. What can I do for you?”

“I’m trying to smoke someone out. Sully said you might know a woman named Katherine Marlowe.”

“Well, not personally, but I know _of_ her and she is not a woman to be trifled with.”

“I know, but we’re not after any ordinary treasure.”

Charlie usually makes a point of not going toe-to-toe with people with reputation’s like Marlowe’s; he thought Sully was smart enough not to either. But then Sully’s always had a bit of a blind spot when it comes to Nate.

From a distance, it’s been fascinating to watch Nate rise up among their fellow treasure hunters, especially as one of the few to know him from the old days. Sully was right about his potential; Nate can’t hide in anyone else’s shadow now, not even Sully’s.

Apparently, not even matrimony can slow him down.

“El Dorado and Shambhala weren’t big enough discoveries for you? Either you’re as good as everyone believes you are or your ego’s in desperate need of puncturing, mate. Leave something for the rest of us.”

“I’m giving you the chance to get in on this one, Charlie. Trust me, I’ve got it all under control.”

As always, Charlie’s impressed with the amount of work Nate’s done ahead of time. The research and planning are thorough, all he needs is an inside man.

Against his better judgement, Charlie’s intrigued; he’s curious to see just how far this venture will go.

“How deeply do you need someone to infiltrate the old hag’s circle?”

“Does that mean you’re in?”

“I wouldn’t miss the chance to see the great Nathan Drake at work.”

\----------

Marlowe feels both Talbot and Sullivan’s eyes watching her as she hangs Drake’s ring around her neck.

Talbot’s expression is one of accomplishment, though they haven’t completed their mission yet.

Sullivan’s is full of contempt.

“Oh, come now, Victor. It’s not as though the ring ever truly belonged to him.”

“His claim to it is better than yours.”

That makes Marlowe laugh; Talbot snickers behind her.

“Don’t tell me you believe his absurd story about Drake’s heirs. Must I show you the proof he isn’t, Victor?”

“I don’t need goddamn proof. I got the truth from the horse’s mouth, and Drake’s descendant or not, it’s been in Nate’s possession for the past twenty years. As far as I’m concerned, the ring is his.”

“Then that just shows how little you know,” Talbot lashes out.

Marlowe puts out a hand to silence him; she won’t allow the Order’s victory to be tarnished by his poor temper. They still need Sullivan to guide them across the desert.

She is fascinated by how unshakable their faith in each other is. She couldn’t penetrate Nathan’s head with doubts about Sullivan. And Sullivan, such the fool to believe Nathan has earned any right to bear the Drake name.

“Regardless, you’ll act as our navigator, or I will give the order to have Nathan killed.”

If Marlowe has learned anything over the years, she’s been chasing them, Sullivan would do just about anything to keep that boy safe, especially from her.

Making her way to the door, Talbot on her heels, “You have a few hours to consider my offer.”

The door closed behind them, Talbot huffs, “You ought to just let me ply it out of him.”

She pats his shoulder, “That won’t be necessary.”

Talbot has come far, but he still lacks the understanding of what makes people tick. Talbot for one, is driven by his need to please her. Sullivan by protecting Nathan.

Marlowe struggled for a long time to pinpoint exactly what drives Nathan. Her first instinct was greed, but that doesn’t explain how so many treasures have slipped through his grasp. It isn’t even Sullivan or his wife, though they are highly motivating factors.

No, as she said before, there is nothing Nathan enjoys better than the thrill of cheating death, but she can’t use that against him the way she can use him against Sullivan.

With any luck, Rameses will keep him out of the way long enough to reach Iram without interference.

\----------

Touching down at the airfield, Sully hugs Elena.

“I don’t know about the pair of you, but I could use a good, long vacation after that. Maybe somewhere without sand.”

“I’d say you’ve earned it,” Elena laughs. “But I think I’d settle for my own bed.”

“To each their own,” Sully gives her an extra squeeze.

Letting her go, he turns to Nate.

Breathing deep, “Sully, I…”

Nate hasn’t said anything about Sully’s little speech back in Yemen. Hell, Sully would rather he didn’t and just accept the second chance he’s been given. Sully’s seen the devastation of losing someone close to him does to Nate and he considers it a goddamn miracle Elena’s willing to take Nate back.

Sully pulls him in for a hug instead. “Don’t ruin the moment, kid. Go catch up with your wife.”

“Enjoy your vacation,” Nate smirks.

Draping his arm over Elena’s shoulders, they head toward the terminal to get a cab home.

Sully sighs, lighting up a cigar. It’ll be a while before the plane’s fueled up for him to take off.

It’s a long road they’ve been on together. Sully knows it isn’t over yet, but something’s different – something’s changed. And it’s not just that Marlowe’s gone.

The long-standing mystery that brought them together is solved and no one was lost. Sure, there were some close calls there, but Sully’s always been a big believer in nothing wagered, nothing earned.

Nate’s more sure of himself than Sully’s seen him in a long time; walking taller, smiling broader, like he might just be ready to stop looking backward and look forward instead.

Sully, for one, would love for Nate not be wracked with guilt over things beyond his control or keeping secrets from Elena. And maybe scrape up a better payday next time.

A rumor of a bejeweled gauntlet somewhere in France crosses Sully’s mind. He has to stop himself from appraising its value versus the cost of obtaining it and remind himself to focus on vacation.

They’ve earned a rest.

But he’ll mention it to Nate next time he sees him.

Or maybe he’ll give him call once he gets back to New Orleans.

Sully shakes his head at himself, muttering, “No rest for the wicked.”


	5. I need direction to perfection

If there’s an art form to white collar crime, Rafe has yet to appreciate it.

To him it mostly looks like a bunch of old men gathered around a conference table at a board meeting, droning on about the simplest ways to make themselves richer through minimal effort.

All the schmoozing at cocktail hours and rubbing elbows at company lunches results in a kind of theft, but there’s no technique or skill involved. Though Rafe excels at it, there’s none of the thrill and satisfaction of treasure hunting.

Behind the smug smiles of shareholders, the only thing they respect is the size of his bank account.

At least every crook Rafe knows has the decency to judge him on his merits to his face, even if it is just to laugh at his continued failure to find Avery’s treasure.

Every single one – except the one name that won’t stop crossing every treasure hunters’ lips. The fucking name who, every time Rafe thinks he’s done hearing about, somehow creeps up again.

“Nathan Drake discovered the fabled El Dorado.”

Rafe laughed outright on hearing that news. Everyone else might have been impressed, but knowing Nate, Rafe could only assume it was a fluke. Sheer dumb luck.

“Nathan Drake raced a madman and his entire army to the steps of Shambhala.”

His blood boiled on hearing that, but Rafe bit his tongue until it bled. ‘They’re exaggerating,’ he told himself.

“Nathan Drake found a lost city in the middle of the Rub’ al Khali desert.”

That time, he stormed out of the bar, causing as big a scene as he possibly could.

Even though Nate hasn’t done anything remotely ‘impressive’ in years, his name is circles around Rafe like a whisper. His hair stands on end as he hears, “Nathan Drake must be working on something big –”

“Hey! Asshole! Would you keep it down over there? Some of us are trying to enjoy a quiet drink,” he shouts across the bar. Rafe rolls his eyes, taking another sip of his rum. He started on the hard liquor earlier this evening, might as well keep on at it now.

The idolizer sidles up next to him, desperately failing to be intimidating, “You got a problem, little man?”

“Yeah, I’ve got a problem. You’re disturbing my evening with all your yammering about a two-bit fraud, who’s only real accomplishment is managing to live long enough to scramble away with absolutely nothing to show for it.”

It’s incredible how quickly a noisy bar can fall to silence when a commanding enough presence raises their voice.

“And the reason there haven’t been any new rumors circulating is because he’s too much of a coward to go after a _real_ treasure.”

Seething, “Just because you’ve never discovered jack shit –”

Rafe’s laughing all over again, “You think I’m jealous? Of that chump?”

“Nathan Drake is a legend –”

_BANG._

The man stumbles backwards clutching his shoulder, “Jesus fucking Christ!”

“You’re lucky I didn’t aim for your head.” Rafe’s not sure exactly at what point he drew his gun, but all of a sudden, his vision went black. The world coming back into focus, “If anyone else has anything to say about the goddamn legend of Nathan Drake – please, step up! I’d _love_ to hear it!”

But between the idolizer’s moaning and the still smoking barrel, nobody dares move.

“That’s what I thought.”

The man’s friends collect him to bring him out to the street and the staff ignores the gun on the counter as Rafe finishes his drink. Aside from a few cursory stares, the other patrons give Rafe a wide berth for the rest of the night.

Rafe’s been more than generous with his compensation for the evening’s disturbance, when he notices another slip of paper beneath the check.

_Back alley, 5 minutes. To hear something about Drake that will interest you._

He crumples the scrap and stows his gun.

A light flickers, and Rafe’s sighs, he’s not in the mood for games.

“I imagine you saw that display in there. If you don’t show yourself on the count of three, I’m leaving. If you don’t have my attention by ten, I’ll shoot. One. Two. Three.”

A figure steps out of the shadows, hands raised, “You’re looking for the _Gunsway_ treasure –”

Rafe steps toward him, “Four.”

“I know an authority on Avery –”

“Five.”

“Samuel Drake –”

“Is dead. You’ve wasted two seconds on that –”

“He’s alive in Panama! I swear it!” The other man collapses to his knees, quivering.

Rafe stops in his tracks. He saw Sam get shot and fall, surviving that _should_ be impossible.

Then again, cheating death wouldn’t be the first impossible thing Rafe heard a Drake pull off, yet somehow, it’s the most plausible.

Part curiosity, part desperation draw Rafe back to Panama. The new warden is evidentially smarter than Vargas, attempting to swindle Rafe out of more money without any proof he actually has Sam, but not asking for more than he’s worth.

Rafe is escorted off the premises and told to wait. The sun’s going down when the front gate opens again; Sam probably would’ve been better off dead than holed up in this place for thirteen years.

Sam rubs his eyes, unable to believe who’s waiting for him on the outside.

“Rafe? What the hell are you doing here?”

“Getting you out. Why? Were you expecting someone else?”

They both know exactly who Sam was hoping it would be on the other side of the gate, but he isn’t coming. The look of consternation across Sam’s face won’t go away.

“We’ve got unfinished business. You ready to get back to work?”

“What the hell makes you think I’m going to work for you?”

“Because you owe me.”

“I _owe_ you? I didn’t ask you to bribe them to drag my ass out of there –”

“So, you’d prefer to be locked up for the rest of your life? Is that it?”

Sam scoffs, his hands shaking. Sure, he’s angry and harbors some misplaced resentment, but if there’s one thing Rafe could predict about Sam’s behavior on getting out, it’s that he would need a smoke.

Tossing him the pack Rafe brought for this eventuality, “You know why you’re going to stick with me? Because we have ambition.”

“Oh,” Sam punctuates it with an eyeroll.

“And now that you’re out of there, that ambition will take us places most idiots couldn’t even imagine.”

Sam turns the pack over, fiddling with it to stave off the need to light up. It’s only a matter of time before he breaks and accepts the gift; after all, he must be tired of whatever shittily rolled cigarettes he could get his hands on.

Rafe insists, “This is the opportunity of a lifetime. Are you ready to seek our fortune, Samuel?”

“Shit,” he mutters under his breath, finally pulling a cigarette from the pack. He paces back and forth, taking a few drags before agreeing, “Yeah.”

\----------

He smokes inside because it pisses Rafe off. He drinks while he’s working on research because it pisses Rafe off. There isn’t much Sam does these days that doesn’t piss Rafe off, intentionally or not.

It didn’t take long for Sam to realize he’s basically under fucking house arrest, so if Rafe wants his help, he’s just going to have to deal with it.

But then Rafe’s favorite thing to do seems to be throwing Nathan in his face.

Luckily, he can mostly tune Rafe out.

Except when he can’t.

His research is leading him in circles. Facts he knows by heart, paths he’s already tread that have led nowhere. He wishes he had mom’s journal; he thought he had every word memorized, but some of it must’ve slipped out over the years he was rotting away.

Hitting another dead-end, Rafe’s latest rant about the city of Shambhala buzzes in his ear like a fly he can’t swat.

It’s incredible what he _can_ find on the internet these days. Every rumor about ‘what _really _happened’ all exists on seedy forums. Back in the day, Sam would have to buy a drink for every treasure hunter in the damn bar before finding someone willing to talk.

Sam skims the speculation surrounding the discovery of Shambhala. A lot of it corroborates what Rafe’s said: Nathan racing against a Serbian war criminal across South Asia to find the Chintamani Stone. The story about the gut-shot and the train gets more exaggerated with every posting about it.

One comment in particular leaves a bitter taste in Sam’s mouth: _Drake single-handedly fought and killed a half-dozen yetis._

_Single-handedly._

Nathan’s always exceeded at dangling off cliffs, but someone was at the top to pull him up.

It used to be Sam. He imagines it’s Sullivan mostly these days, but his name is curiously absent from all the theories about Shambhala.

Around the tenth comment about climbing a derailed train in the middle of the Himalayas while gut-shot, Sam can’t take it anymore.

He scrolls down, but the page ends abruptly once he gets past 2007. There are a few scattered postings, but the earliest one only dates back to 2003. The internet didn’t have nearly as much to say about Nathan back then.

Taking a swig and lighting up another cigarette, Sam does something completely inadvisable. He enters ‘Samuel Drake’ into the search bar.

_No results found._

Which is complete bullshit because the search engine did manage to suggest that he might’ve meant ‘Francis Drake’ or any number of other ‘Samuels’.

Holding his head in his hands, he thinks he’s going to be sick. He _wants_ to be sick – to feel anything other than this.

He spins in the chair, trying to make himself dizzy enough to puke, but nothing comes up.

“Christ,” Sam mutters, finally going outside.

He wishes it were colder so his extremities would go numb.

He hates every fucking thing about this. Hates this house and Rafe’s fucking rules. Hates the fucking internet and his inability to find anything useful on it.

But above everything else, Sam hates that after thirteen fucking years, Nathan has made a name for himself and forgotten all about him.

“What the hell are you doing out here?”

“What’s it look like I’m doing? I’m taking a smoke break.”

He doesn’t need to turn around to know Rafe is rolling his eyes. “Hurry it up, will you? We’ve got work to do.”

Of course, _now_ Rafe wants to contribute. Whenever he thinks Sam is taking too long or slacking off too much, that’s when Rafe decides to step in and take control.

“Listen, it’s not like Avery left some map with a big red X on it, okay? But I’ve got some very solid leads –”

“Cut the crap, Sam. If you don’t want me to know what you’ve been working on, you should learn how to clear your browser history.”

_Shit._

“Your brother’s a hack, Sam – he’s always been a hack. Thirteen years hasn’t changed that. But I like you, Samuel. More importantly, I believe in you. That’s why you’re here.”

“I can get it, okay? I just need some time.”

“You see, the problem is I’m having all these doubts enter my mind.”

Sam’s never found Rafe to be very intimidating, but there’s a dangerous edge in his voice which makes Sam wary. Treading carefully, “Rafe, listen to me. I _will_ find it. I swear it.”

“When I got you out of that shithole, how long did you say it would take?”

“Three months.”

“How long has it been?”

He thinks he’s going to be sick again, “Six.”

“Six months,” Rafe chuckles darkly. “And exactly how much progress have you actually made in that time?”

Sam swallows. It’s not like before, when they knew where to start looking and mom’s journal to guide them. God, for all the hours he wasted away trying to recall every last detail of its pages, he must be forgetting something.

“You’re really trying my patience, Sam, you know that? If you were going to be this lazy, you should’ve asked for more time, instead of making promises you can’t keep –”

“The trail’s cold, Rafe.” For once, Sam isn’t bullshitting. “If you could pick it up again on your own, you wouldn’t be nagging me about it. So, you’ll excuse me if it takes some time to find a lead that isn’t a dead end.”

Rafe simmers. Sam doesn’t usually use his height to his advantage, but he straightens up to remind Rafe he has some dignity left and he’s not going to be pushed around.

“And you want to know something else? I don’t give a shit what Nathan’s been up to. He gave up and abandoned the mission of a lifetime. I’m going to find that treasure, if it’s the last thing I do.”

“I want proof that you’re working on it,” Rafe snarls, letting the door slam behind him.

“You got it, boss,” Sam mutters to no one.

He doesn’t quit smoking inside, but Sam hunkers down.

Rafe has the resources, but when the time comes, Sam’s gonna need someone more reliable at his back – someone he trusts. He needs Nathan.

\----------

At least they’re in a secluded corner when Nadine bursts, “What the hell was that?”

“He was taking you for a ride. You weren’t going to get any information out of –”

“Bullshit,” Nadine jabs Rafe hard in the chest. “I had everything perfectly under control until you decided to step in and make a scene.”

“If Victor Sullivan is here, so are Sam and Nathan Drake – I’d bet my inheritance on it.”

“You might just have to,” she snaps.

She doesn’t care that they bribed the auction house to change the lot order. She doesn’t care that the crucifix is in full view of everyone. She doesn’t care if no one else has the money to outbid them. If Victor Sullivan is here, then they have competition.

Whether or not that includes Sam and Nathan Drake, Nadine’s not about to wait around to find out. She bites her tongue and swallows her ‘I told you so’ for now.

“I’m going to find a gun.”

“Don’t go too far, I need you to keep an eye on the cross.”

Partner or no – Nadine doesn’t do well with orders from anyone who isn’t her superior.

Growling, “You watch it. I’m going to find a way to prevent Sam Drake from getting away with whatever he’s plotting.”

Shoreline’s been hired for enough of these criminal auctions, Nadine knows exactly where she should look for the armed guards, but back rooms are restricted to staff only. Ideally, she would be able to get her hands on one of the assault rifles stashed behind the coat check. But if worst comes to worst, she can knock over one of the guards with the concealed handguns.

Despite her search for a gun and the extreme urge to break Sam Drake’s nose, taking a walk gives Nadine time to cool off.

It was lovely to chat with Victor; Nadine wasn’t about to be taken in by his wiles. she’s a professional after all. Though perhaps her questions about Nathan Drake were a tad too direct, Victor still seemed perfectly content to talk about him until Rafe showed up. Watching Victor’s demeanor shift was like a door slamming in her face.

If she learned anything from their conversation, dead and out are two separate things. Settling down and getting married doesn’t stop people from having careers. Retiring doesn’t have to be permanent.

Unless, Nathan Drake’s dead, Nadine’s not about to count him out. Not when his brother and ex-partner are involved.

Nadine watches Rafe and Victor’s bidding war from the upper level when the lights go out.

The cross has vanished when the emergency power kicks in.

She’d be impressed by the lift if she wasn’t already figuring the thief’s best escape routes off the estate. Except if she runs into them, she still doesn’t have a gun.

There’s one last place she knows she might find one. She noticed a bunch of guards playing poker in the room adjacent to the storage room when they bribed the auctioneer to change the lot order.

Nadine hasn’t even touched the knob when the door swings open.

They both play dumb as they get a good look at each other.

“Oh!”

“_Scusi._”

Unlucky for him, the family resemblance is too strong, and Nadine gains the upper hand against Nathan Drake.

What amazes Nadine about isn’t Nathan Drake’s wit or prowess, but the opposite. When his hits don’t land, he resorts to being a smartass. It’s like fighting an obstinate child really; she’s even holding back.

Once it’s clear to her he doesn’t have the crucifix, all of her frustration and rage surge through her. The shattering of glass as she hurls Nathan Drake through a window is more satisfying than Nadine would’ve thought on first acquaintance.

\----------

“And the winner for Best Director of a Documentary Series is…”

Nate squeezes her hand to keep it from trembling; it isn’t nerves per se, more like excitement surging through her. It distracts her from the overeager cameraman, attempting to get in her face to capture her reaction as they announce the winner for the large screen.

“Elena Fisher! _Drake & Fisher Fortunes_!”

The eruption of applause and blaring theme music are dulled by Nate’s hand cupping her face as he showers her with kisses.

“Come up with me,” her voice is practically swept up in the din.

“And steal your moment?”

Elena rolls her eyes at Nate, but kisses him too, rising out of her seat to take the stage alone.

The announcer echoes her achievements over the speaker system, “This is Elena Fisher’s first nomination and first win. She and her husband, are also nominated tonight for best documentary series for _Drake & Fisher Fortunes_.”

It’s an abysmally short list for everything they’ve been through which led them here, just long enough for her to reach the stage. Somehow wearing a gown and heels make the steps up to the mic more daunting than every cliff she’s ever scaled.

By some miracle, Elena makes it to the top without tripping and an award is pressed into her hands. She’s guided toward the mic.

Her eyes adjusting to the blinding spotlights, she tries to spot Nate in their seats, but he’s lost in the crowd.

“Wow.” She isn’t speechless; speechless is for uncovering lost cities, not dark auditoriums. But she’s forgotten everything she wanted to say. “Thank you. Thank you for the opportunity to see my husband in a tux. I don’t think that’s happened since our wedding.”

The audience laughs. Elena’s too stunned to be able to tell if it’s just polite or genuine. Mixture of both probably.

Turning the award over in her hands, “You know, when finding treasure is your literal day job, most things pale in comparison. But this was earned and definitely not on my own.”

She knows she’s speeding up, but it has to be rapid-fire. Elena’s won’t kid herself, she knows this isn’t a category many people have an interest in, even if she is one of the few women to have won it.

“Thank you to the network for giving us the freedom to do the show our way. To my incredible, daring and patient crew, thank you for putting up with us. To my parents, for putting my first camera in my hands. To our beautiful daughter, Cassie, for reminding me to look at everything with wonder. Sweetie, I know you’re watching, but mommy’s won now, so it’s time to listen to Uncle Sully and go to bed before daddy loses.”

More chuckling from the audience and the music starts to swell, but she’s not getting off the stage without one more.

“And Nate – my wonderful husband and partner in this insane venture. Every day has been an adventure with you, it’s not hard to see where Cassie gets it from. I love you. Thank you.”

The music likely drowned out the very end, but Elena managed to say more than she thought she would before being led backstage. They hold off on escorting her back to her seat until after the next category.

As they announce the nominations for Best Documentary Series that excited energy courses through her again. If only she and Nate could share _this_ moment of their shared nomination together.

But _Drake & Fisher Fortunes_ doesn’t emerge victorious twice in a row and Elena is finally brought back to her seat by an usher as the lights dim for the next category.

Their hands find each other in the dark, fingers lacing together.

“I think you jinxed our chances on national television,” Nate whispers, not paying attention.

“Like we were going to win anyway.”

When the lights come back up, Nate suggests, “Let’s get out of here.”

“Please.”

They’ve fulfilled their attendance obligation and Elena is ready to get out of this dress and most especially these heels.

Outside, the press has almost entirely dissipated to watch the ceremony, but a few freelancers linger on the fringes of the red carpet to catch the early departures like themselves. Too busy unstrapping her shoes, Elena and Nate aren’t quite quick enough to make their escape.

“Ms. Fisher. Mr. Drake. Would you be able to spare a minute?”

Elena’s about to brush off the reporter when she turns to see a young woman with a tape recorder at the ready and her heart pangs with nostalgia.

“I don’t see why not,” Elena agrees, glancing at Nate to see if it’s fine by him.

He shrugs, “It’s _your_ night.”

Elena rolls her eyes.

Holding out the recorder, “First off, congratulations on your win. It’s a big one for _Fortunes_’ first major award.”

“Thank you. With any luck, it won’t be our last.”

“Now as an award-winning director, would you care to shed some light on how you manage to capture the excitement of your travels on film and make the audience feel like they’re right there with you?”

Elena’s surprised by the caliber of the exit interviewer, asking more than just fluff questions; eager as she is to crash next to Nate on the hotel room bed, she can’t half-ass her answers.

But articulating it… “Most of it is technical babble I won’t bore you with, but the other part of it is letting someone grab you by the hand and show you something amazing. It’s infectious – that energy and enthusiasm – and I’m just so pleased the audience has let us take them by the hand to show them the world’s marvels.”

“On behalf of your fans – mission accomplished. What about you, Nate? How do you feel about Elena’s win?”

Chuckling, “You’re asking a biased source. But if we could only walk away with one award tonight, I’m glad it was this one. No one works harder on our show than Elena and she deserves recognition for it.”

Elena doesn’t think Nate’s being fair to himself. No one puts more time into research or energy into artifact recovery than him.

They don’t put blood and tears into their work anymore, but god – the mount of sweat they’ve both lost. The show’s accomplishments are _their _accomplishments. No matter who’s officially declared the winner, thanks to the show’s name, both their names are etched into the plaque.

“And what about the Best Documentary Series category? You planning to claim that one next year?”

Grinning up at Nate, Elena’s competitive side comes out, “We’ll be back. You can count on it.”

“Well, congratulations again. Any special plans to celebrate tonight?”

As if on cue, Elena stifles a yawn, “Sleep. We just got off a plane from Kyrgyzstan. We’re exhausted.”

The reporter laughs, “Is that a hint to where you’ll be taking us on the next season of _Fortunes_?”

“You’ll just have to watch to find out,” Nate teases.


End file.
